


They call him Emrys

by quothme



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 77,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quothme/pseuds/quothme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bring Emrys to the Dark Tower, Morgana demands. Or Gwen will die. Canon AU that diverges in mid S5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To my great dismay, I’m abysmally late to the ooey gooey goodness that is Merlin. Yet again, I manage to catch a thing years after it’s a thing. Anemoia is a way of life. In any case, this story is my belated shout into the void. Hopefully someone’s still around to hear me fall…

Over his years in Camelot, a lot of things have sailed toward Merlin’s head—books, boots, pillows, people.

This time, it’s a pot. 

Chucked by Cook herself after Merlin gives her the news. Arthur has decided to throw a feast. Tonight. And everyone’s invited.

“Just because,” he said. It was only as Merlin turned to leave that Arthur added, “Inform the serving staff, will you?” 

“Coward,” Merlin muttered as the door to the royal chambers swung closed behind him. Hard. The thick wood wasn’t enough to obscure Arthur’s chuckle.

So now Merlin’s the lucky bloke to stand before Cook as her eyes glaze and she goes very still. If looks could kill, he’d be roast. And then, of course, came the pot.

Merlin ducks, and it clatters harmlessly against the hearth. 

Practice makes perfect.

As he escapes down the hall, he hears Cook bellow, “You heard the man. The King wants a feast, a feast he gets, one for the ages.”

Man, Merlin thinks, and grins.

For all her grouching, Merlin’s sure Cook secretly loves it, the chance to work her own kind of magic. She could teach Arthur a thing or two about rallying the troops.

* * *

 

Later, as Merlin finishes his ill-fated mission, leaving a swathe of wide-eyed panic and hurry in his wake—in everyone from the Head Steward to the laundresses to every servant he passes—he’s back in Arthur’s chambers. Arthur’s gotten it in his head that he’d like to wear his best tunic to the feast, the one usually reserved for when he entertains kings. Problem is, the tunic doesn’t seem to want to go over his head.

It’s unclear if Arthur’s head has swelled (likely) or if the fabric has shrunk (less likely). Merlin wrestles with it until Arthur gets impatient and starts trying to help (he doesn’t). If there were any subtle way to use magic on the collar, Merlin would. But with his luck, he’d set the shirt on fire and then Arthur would find out and then the world would end. And Merlin would be damned if Arthur found out about his magic because he got fat.

As Merlin wrestles the fabric down, Arthur tugs at the neck and exclaims, “I almost forgot. I need flowers.”

“We're just full of ideas today. And these flowers are for…”

“The feast,” Arthur says, as though it’s obvious.

Merlin’s starting to hate this feast. He flicks Arthur’s fingers from the collar. “You’ve never needed flowers for a feast before.”

“They’re Gwen’s favorite,” Arthur says, as though this explains everything. And perhaps it does. 

Merlin plays along. “Any particular sort?”

“You know, the ones with with the—” Arthur’s hands go poof. “And the—” Arthur pinches the air.

He looks at Merlin expectantly.

Merlin hazards a, “The white ones?”

Arthur starts to pull the tunic back off. “Yes, those. I need them. Loads of them.”

Merlin’s doubtful. “Because they’re Gwen’s favorite.”

“That’s right.”

Merlin opens his mouth to remind Arthur that it’s almost winter. “I’ll see what I can do.” For Arthur, Merlin will move mountains. He can handle a few flowers.

He steps away, toward the door.

“And Merlin?” 

Merlin’s smile is all teeth. “Something else, Sire?”

The dress tunic splats in Merlin’s face. 

“This seems to have shrunk in the wash. Fetch me another.”

* * *

 

Merlin braces against the crisp air, his steps brisk. By blind habit, his path takes him toward the small stairs that lead to his chambers. As his brain catches up to his feet, he feels the familiar ache and diverts instead to the seamstress.

“Hullo,” he calls to where she’s harried and half-buried behind a mountain of other last-minute requests, everyone unearthing their finest and finding it flawed. It’s been too long since they’ve had a proper feast. “The King’s porked up a bit ‘round the neck and wonders if it’s possible to let out a collar. For tonight.”

She eyes it doubtfully but says, “Of course.”

As Merlin leaves, she’s already ripping out the seams.

* * *

 

Next, Merlin bobs down the main thoroughfare of the lower town, which teems with all manner of merchants hawking their wares. Anything you could ever want—and more—can be found here, in this glorious panoply of food and flora and fauna. Except at this time of year, when there’s a distinct lack of flora.

In these past years, Camelot has blossomed.

A man steps into Merlin’s path and flashes a gap-tooth grin. “A merlin for Merlin?” On his arm clings a brace of delicate, hooded hawks. 

Merlin waves his thanks, but no thanks and moves along. He’s no longer surprised, when people know his name. Arthur blames the neckerchief.

A few more yards and he exits, unchallenged, through the east gate. The guards are suspiciously absent from their posts. There was a time when they would not have failed to cross lances and inquire a) who he was and b) whence he goes. They would ask even though they knew exactly who he was and which whence would compel him from the castle on foot—herbs for Gaius or something ridiculous for Arthur. 

Like flowers.

Now, peace has softened their stances. So much so that Merlin finds them huddled around the corner. They hardly glance up as he passes, so engrossed are they in the dice. But glance they do, and then they double-take at the neckerchief. As if it’s a red flag that links Merlin to Arthur. They snap to belated attention, fumbling for discarded helmets.

As he strides past, Merlin winks. “Your secret is safe.”

Relieved, they tip their helmets at him. He leaves them to their game and heads for the woods. 

Arthur wouldn’t be pleased, but Merlin doesn’t fault them for trying to pass hours more quickly. There hasn’t been trouble in Camelot for ages. 

Under Uther, the five kingdoms were like rafts that roiled on a turbulent sea. Their jagged edges, often in dispute, teemed with bandits and smugglers and forgotten castles that were commandeered by slavers or mercenaries or dog fighters. You could hardly travel the forests closest to Camelot without an armed guard.

Slowly yet steadily, Arthur has lashed the five kingdoms together more securely under treaties with bold new thinking. He offers mercenaries land, hijacks bandits and smugglers with offers of legitimate employment, and gives aid freely to anyone in the five kingdoms who requests it, regardless of borders. Even more important—he’s kept his promises to the Druids, relaxing laws about magic to no longer include penalty of death. As the executions slowed and stopped, so did the attempts on Arthur’s life.

This, then, is why Merlin can saunter from the gates of Camelot without fear of what lies beyond or who might take a stab (literally) at Arthur in his absence. Those who wish ill toward Camelot are rapidly becoming few and far between. Especially since Morgana has disappeared. No one has seen tattered hide nor tangled hair of her for years.

Merlin walks a safe distance into the woods and steps behind a tree as thick as a barrel. It’s even cooler here, in the shadow of the trees. He waits a respectable amount of time, stamping and shivering, and thinks of somewhere warm. He sees it in his mind, a sunny field somewhere far away that undulates white in a soft breeze.

Then he reaches out and pulls.

Poof, he has an armful of blossoms, more than he can carry. They overflow to the ground, petals fluttering like snow. He’s overcompensated, the forest floor in all directions ringed with petals.

Merlin can’t fathom why Gwen likes these, more weed than flower. He sniffs. They don’t even smell nice.

He sniffs again, nose crinkling.

Then he sneezes.

“Oh, just brilliant.”

* * *

 

On his way back in, the guards stare.

“Where did he—?”

The other shrugs as if to say, That’s Merlin.

* * *

 

Back in the relative warmth of the castle, Merlin dodges through a hustle and bustle of a more manic sort. Servants like himself flit hither and thither, arms laden, as though somebody tromped on an ant hill. Some shoot daggers at him, as though this is his fault.

He rounds a corner and nearly plows into a gaggle of red-clad knights who drift, aimless and useless at times like these. The ample bouquet hides his face, so perhaps in all the hubbubaloo they won’t—

“Merlin. You shouldn’t have.” Gwaine plucks a sprig and sticks it behind his ear. 

Not to be outdone, other hands reach, and Merlin dances away. “Mitts off. These are for the King.” Then, just because his fingers are still frozen from his little jaunt, he adds, “You know how he gets about his flowers.”

The younger knights stare.

“And poetry,” Leon adds helpfully.

“Indeed.” Merlin edges around them and is almost free when—

Gwaine cocks his head. “Where’d you get flowers?”

Merlin sneezes. “A cave. Obviously.” 

He eels under Gwaine’s playful fist and is off. Not to be so easily foiled, Gwaine cuffs Elyan in the shoulder instead, which prompts Elyan to grapple him into a headlock. And then it’s madness and the knights roughhouse in the hall like overgrown puppies. 

Except Leon, of course, who stands tall and wise above it all. 

Until someone yanks his hair.

* * *

 

Merlin sneezes.

And sneezes and sneezes and sneezes for hours and his eyes water and his nose runs but it’s all worth it, for when Gwen spies the flowers, artfully arranged before her plate, her eyes shine with water of their own.

Arthur smiles at Merlin so big he shows his crooked tooth. Merlin will tease him about this later. For now, Merlin merely shrugs as if to say, they appeared out of nowhere, which technically they did, and scampers off because it’s time for wine.

Wine makes everything better. Wine makes Arthur’s eyes shine and his tongue loose and his smile so wide he doesn’t even think about his tooth. It makes the nobles stop their grumbling and Sir Leon break out his lute and Sir Gwaine dust off his impressive repertoire of profane words in three tongues.

Tonight, the wine is especially good.

Merlin knows this because he sneaks gulps from Arthur’s own cup before handing it back to him, much to Gwaine’s delight. The wine makes Merlin’s blood rush and his head spin and his heart expand so quickly it might burst. He’s not sure when it happened, when Camelot became home.

Wine is also the only reason Merlin can make it through the first seven stanzas of an epic ballad about a golden king who’s ushered in a golden age. The bards flock to Camelot now, looking to make a name for themselves by chronicling the legend of Arthur Pendragon and how’s he’s the blah of blah blah blah. Honestly, it’s getting old, this endless extolling of the prolific virtues of Camelot’s King. 

Arthur’s cabbage head doesn’t need to get any bigger. Nor his neck.

So when the bard starts on stanza eight, Merlin might have something to do with the fact that his voice cracks horribly on the high note. Mortified, the man flees the room. Diva.

“Thank god,” Arthur groans to Merlin, an aside. “This Arthur fellow they’re going on about sounds like a total buffoon.”

“I believe the word is prat, Sire.”

They absolutely do not giggle. Because they are not girls.

Besides the wine, there is also a feast. Cook did not boast when she said it would be one for the ages. The pages file in and in and in, hefting trays laden with all variety of meat—oysters in civey, eels in sorry, baked trout, brawn in mustard, numbles of a hart, pigs farsed, goose in hoggepotte, venison in frumenty, and even a roast squirrel or two.

When Merlin leans in for a refill, Arthur whispers, “My compliments to Cook. She’s outdone even herself.” 

Merlin grins, happy for once to oblige. He catches Cook as she heads out for a well-deserved rest, red-faced and sweat-soaked. The King’s words infuse new life into her weary limbs, and she revives long enough to crush Merlin in a bear hug and plant a sloppy peck on his mouth. “You little bastard,” she growls, then slaps his fingers from the dumplings.

The night gets better from there, Arthur in fine form. Merlin watches him, as he’s wont to do. Toward the end of most feasts, he normally grows loose and languid, relaxing into the warmth of the fire and wine, the weight of the food, and the love of his people. But tonight Arthur is electric, buoyed by something within. 

Merlin can hardly keep up with him, the way Arthur flits here and there like a butterfly, never alighting too long in one place. He roams the room, casting the warmth of his presence on everyone, sowing smiles on every face, in the way only he can.

Merlin’s not sure he’s ever seen Arthur this open, this free.

This happy.

Even as the evening winds down, much food and drink enjoyed by all, bones and fingers picked and licked clean, Arthur remains driven to some purpose. There’s something he plans to do, something yet to say, that dangles on the tip of his tongue, the hidden agenda behind this feast. Merlin can see it in his every gesture. In every glance he and Gwen share.

Arthur has a secret.

He looks the way Merlin feels. About to burst.

So Merlin’s not surprised when Arthur gets to his feet. He says not a word, but his action ripples through the Great Hall. Servants abandon their errands, knights quit their boasting. Faces ruddy with warmth and drink turn toward their king. Familiar faces all, knights and nobles old and new.

Arthur seems lit from within, holy fire in his eyes. He lifts his goblet. “My friends. My family.”

A draft shivers Merlin’s skin. Despite the fire, it’s an old castle. Somehow, the cold always finds ways to sneak in. Likely someone somewhere left a door open, a pair sneaking off for a snog. With his free hand, the one not holding the bottomless jug of wine, he clutches his coat more firmly across his chest.

Arthur speaks. To the casual onlooker, it might look like he meanders, first welcoming the latest recruits of knights, then recounting Camelot’s many blessings over the past year. But Merlin can see that the shape of his words build a foundation, layers upon layers that will culminate in some height.

Arthur says, “Above all, there is one thing to which I have dedicated my blood, my sweat, my tears. My every waking moment. And that one thing is peace.”

With this, Merlin understands, the likely source of the sudden feast. Unbeknownst to all but a few, Arthur has undertaken secret negotiations with a rising leader in one of the Saxon tribes, a warlord by the name of Aurelius. Merlin’s not supposed to know about it but of course he does. Likely Arthur hopes to unify the Saxons under Aurelius. Before you can sign a treaty, you must have someone with which to sign.

Arthur says, “In my father’s day, Albion was but a dream. Together, we will make it a reality.”

Merlin applauds with the rest, careful not to slosh. Definitely the Saxons. The news is good, then, although much sooner than anticipated. And strange, that Arthur wouldn’t have informed the Council first.

The cold persists, a damp, creeping thing. Merlin can’t seem to shake it, even edging closer to the fire, his fingers gone numb for the second time today. It’s all he can do to grip the jug. Perhaps it is something he ate. Or drank, although he’d stopped tippling the cup hours ago. Someone had to be ready to help Arthur to bed.

He hasn’t felt this way since…

Merlin straightens. Ice of an entirely different sort floods his spine.

Arthur says, “Together, we’ve already accomplished so much. We’ve supplanted cruelty with compassion. Fear with faith.”

Some brave soul cries, “And bandits with bards!”

At this, there are chuckles.

Merlin takes the opportunity to step into Arthur’s eyeline. Even merry as he is, Arthur notes the movement, so attuned they’ve become. Merlin cocks his head in their private code for there’s something, it’s serious, we need to talk. 

But Arthur’s eyes shift away. He pretends not to see, won’t be deterred, so focused is he on his speech. He stops for no man. He’s almost there, the climax in which he’ll tell everyone about some unprecedented treaty he’s just hashed out with the Saxons. Everything he’s said so far has been leading up to this moment, all this talk of peace, even the bard’s seven stanzas.

Arthur raises his goblet to its highest point. “And so I want you—my nearest and dearest friends—to be the first to hear the news.”

The King’s voice sounds strange and far away, as though there’s cotton in Merlin’s ears. The wine jug coats with grease and slips from his fingers. Horrified, Merlin watches it plummet to the floor, wine droplets like shards of glass.

Everyone jerks to the clatter, necks craning for the source of the disruption. Arthur pauses in his speech, frowning at Merlin.

That’s one way to get his attention.

“Please pardon my servant. He can’t hold his drink. Literally, it would seem.”

People guffaw. A couple of folks step to Merlin’s elbows, propping him up. His legs no longer seem to work. Merlin tries to speak but his teeth knock. There’s something wrong. Something terribly, horribly wrong. _Arthur_ , Merlin thinks, desperate, wants to scream it but his tongue is frozen to the roof of his mouth.

Arthur says, “As I was saying—”

The doors to the Great Hall wrench violently open and slam against the stones with a resounding doom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The list of food at the feast is paraphrased from a much longer passage in The Once and Future King by T.H. White.


	2. Chapter 2

A cruel wind surges through the Great Hall, ruffling hair, extinguishing torches and candles, plunging them all into the half-light of the fire in the massive hearth. 

A dark, distorted figure slashes the doorway. By the looks of it, an ancient sorceress. She’s clothed in tattered threads like dark spiderwebs. Back bowed and twisted under the weight of age. Hair a tangled snarl, streaks of it gone to white. 

Merlin’s skin prickles ice-cold.

This. This is what he’d been feeling, an inexorable march of dark magic, used without care, cutting a swathe into the very heart of Camelot. It’s been so long since he felt its ilk, he had dismissed it as weather.

Then the old woman shuffles forward, from the shadows to the light.

Everyone intakes breath, a hiss of recognition.

For this is not some obscure sorceress. 

Nor some old woman.

It’s Morgana.

Morgana, whose one-woman crusade to conquer Camelot ended when Arthur sent her on a one-way trip over a cliff. After disemboweling her from shoulder to pelvis. Morgana, whom no one has seen tattered hide nor tangled hair of since. Arthur was so sure she was dead that he held a somber funeral in her honor, one fit for a queen.

Merlin, the reason Arthur had gotten close enough to use his sword, was never so sure. He’s seen Morgana poisoned, stabbed, and buried under a castle. Yet each time, she managed to claw herself back like a weed through stone.

Now, he’s seen her survive a fall. 

But by the looks of it, only just.

Gone is the glittering girl who roamed these halls in Uther’s day. Her healing magic had kept her alive, but it hadn’t made her whole. Her formerly glossy curls have snarled into a limp matt. Skin of wax. Lips pale. Eyes the green of bruises. She’s decomposed.

_This_ , some think. This is what becomes of those who dabble in magic. It consorts and contorts until it consumes. But Merlin, he knows it’s not magic that has twisted her hair and her limbs and her expression. It’s hate.

Under one arm, Morgana swaddles something in ratty cloth.

When she speaks, even her voice is different. “So nice of you to welcome me home.”

The sound shatters the stunned silence, spurring guards that line the wall like chess pieces. With a clatter of mail, they come to life and charge her. Around the tables, swords hiss from scabbards, glinting deadly. Knights leap from their chairs, vault tables, and converge on Morgana like a deadly snare. In a few seconds, they’ll have her, the noose drawn tight, too many of them for her to fight, nearly 50 strong. She took too great a risk, coming back here alone, to the heart of this place, the source of Arthur’s strength.

Morgana does nothing. Merely stands and awaits them like the inevitable tide.

But Merlin, he doesn’t like the look on her face, doesn’t want to find out what she carries. He calls on his magic like lightning. It thrums and hums through his veins, ready for release. In the uproar, it will be easy. A well-placed sword, enhanced by a streak of magic. That’s all it will take.

But then.

Morgana holds up a single hand, fingers warped into a claw.

The world stops. Or ends, maybe, Merlin’s not sure. Time stretches like a drip of black tar, people caught in the muck as though they’ve been turned to wood. Stiff-limbed, the knights scatter like someone’s swiped an arm through the chess board, their momentum sending them piling into each other and heaping onto the floor, all elbows and knees and swords.

Even Merlin is paralyzed, his chest constricted by thick, sticky strands. From half a room away, Arthur stares back at him, face colorless. For once, he hadn’t charged to the forefront. He’d stayed behind the relative safety of his table, at Gwen’s side, sword outstretched. Fear flickers before his battle mask descends.

Morgana always did like to make an entrance.

Merlin feels off-kilter, helpless. He can’t afford to wait and see how this plays out. So he gathers himself and sends a burst of his magic to meet her bindings, expecting it to rip through them like a spider web. Yet the strands that bind him are choking, cloying vines. Morgana’s magic is strong. Impossibly strong. Merlin has never felt anything like it.

She twitches. “Is this any way to welcome your long-lost sister?”

She bends at the waist, as though bowing, and lowers her burden to the floor. The cloth falls away, revealing a small chest made of iron, emblazoned with some ancient symbol, a three-point flower.

Then she leaves it behind and sashays deeper into the room, inspecting her handiwork. Testing a frozen limb here, poking a cheek there. Lightning-quick, she swats a goblet from someone’s hand. It clatters to the cobblestones, deafening in the eerie silence. Wine spatters the man’s face and dribbles into his eye. Yet he can’t move, can’t blink. Can’t even scream as the liquid corrodes his eyeball.

Merlin doesn’t understand, why she doesn’t fist Arthur’s heart and be done with him.

“Oh look,” she tuts. “Sir Ector impaled himself.” The tip of a sword protrudes from the meat of Ector’s thigh. “You know what they say about running with swords.”

Arthur’s knuckles are white on his own weapon. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Merlin redoubles his efforts to free himself, shoving upward and outward with his magic. But it’s like his limbs are wrapped in a rolled carpet. He starts to panic—can’t move, can’t breathe. 

And he’s not alone. Around him, people flush red, lips tinged blue. They can’t move. Not even their lungs. Dark shadows begin to encroach on Merlin’s vision. In a few more moments, there will be nothing even he can do.

Arthur’s face flushes deep crimson. His throat works.

She’s killing him.

She’s killing all of them.

Morgana waves a careless hand.

Everyone in the Great Hall doubles over, coughing for breath. Some people slump where they sit, heads lolling, out cold. Some choke and cry. The man with wine in his eye lets out a strangled scream.

Merlin tries to move closer to Arthur, to put himself in Morgana’s path, but his feet are fused to the stone. From the way Arthur shifts and jerks, Merlin can see he’s equally bound. Morgana hasn’t quite released them, not all the way. She takes no chances.

She’s playing with them, a predator with its prey. 

She could kill them at any moment.

And yet, she doesn’t.

Merlin feels stretched thin. She’s too close to Arthur. Too close, and he’s too far. He trembles and sweats with the effort to free himself, his magic whirling within, a tempest in a bottle. He has no idea how she’s done it, suppressed his magic.

Morgana wends slow, careful through the bodies that litter the floor. “I see the gang’s all here.” She blows a kiss to Gwaine, where he lies half on top of Leon. Then she plants a foot on his knee and steps over it with all her weight. He bites down a scream.

She starts down the first row of tables, inspecting faces as she passes. An empty chair gives her pause. “What’s this? It seems we’re missing someone. An old friend.” She reads the truth on their faces, Arthur’s and Gwen’s. “I suppose the appropriate thing is to say I’m sorry.” Morgana stares down at the chair, looking into the past. Then her eyes go cold. “But I’m not. Gaius drugged me for years, trying to drown my magic, trying to keep it from me. So I say instead, good riddance.”

“He tried to help you.” Even as he says the words, Merlin knows he should have kept his mouth shut. He should have focused on breaking the bonds that ensnare. Instead, he’s drawn Morgana’s attention like a beacon. Yet he couldn’t help it, couldn’t let her besmirch the man he’d considered a father.

Her head turns, her sharp eyes pick him out from where he hovers near the fire with the other servants.

“Merlin. As puny as ever, I see. And still loyal to a fault. Tried to poison anyone lately?”

Merlin smiles a tight, dangerous smile. “The night’s young.”

Morgana throws her head back and cackles. “You always had a mouth. Too bad it’s connected to a worthless brain. This time, you’ll find I’m not so easy to dupe.” 

“Get on with it, Morgana,” Arthur demands.

The spotlight of her gaze falls to him now, her ultimate prize. She takes the final steps and stops too close to his table, a sword’s arc away. Merlin knows that Arthur considers it, is calculating the exact force and geometry to—

Merlin shakes his head, slight. He can’t tell, if Arthur sees. But the King’s grip on his hilt loosens. He does not strike.

“Brother,” Morgana mewls. “It’s been too long. You don’t visit. You don’t write. I suppose you’re wondering why you haven’t heard from me these many years.”

Arthur looks at her, straight and sure. He sheathes his sword, flicks his cloak, and sits back in his chair. “To be honest, I try not to think of you.” He dismisses her with his eyes, plucking a carrot from his plate and crunching.

Merlin wants to applaud Arthur’s audacity. He wants to thwap him across the head with his jug. Goad a snake, it’s likely to bite.

Morgana’s eyes glint dangerous. “Not very kingly of you. You should have learned by now: ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away.”

“I believed you dead. And if not, then I hoped you’d seen the error of your ways. That you’d decided to live your life in peace.”

“A nice fantasy. You always were good at keeping your head up your royal arse.” Her eyes go calculating. She plops on the edge of the table and leans in, all conspirator. “Do you recall that time in the armory?”

Arthur’s eyes startle to Morgana’s. Then they shift to Gwen. 

Morgana doesn’t miss it. Her face goes mock-innocent, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me Gwen doesn’t know the sordid details of your youth.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. “We were young and foolish. There’s no reason to rehash the past.”

“There’s every reason. Back then, Arthur pawed at anything that moved. Didn’t you, Arthur?”

Merlin feels sick, at what Morgana seeks to do. Here, before the whole court and a parcel of bards to boot.

At the memory, Arthur’s cheeks tinge red. Yet still he speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t twist it. It was just one kiss.”

“Ah, but it might have gone further, had Uther not caught us. Do you remember what he did?”

Arthur’s confused, no longer sure where she’s going with this. “Gave us a stern talking to.”

Morgana’s eyes glitter. “He gave you a stern talking to. Me, he had flogged. Called me a temptress who threatened the purity of his only son.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to hers. The first glimmer of pain in his face, old wounds that can never quite heal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“My very first scars. But they were not the last.”

“Uther gave them to you,” Gwen chimes in. “Not Arthur.”

Morgana’s head turns to Gwen, slow. “Why my darling, I didn’t see you there. The fancy clothes and the crown aren’t enough to hide what you really are—a waste of space servant.”

Gwen raises her chin, lovely and defiant. “I’d rather have grown up a servant than a spoiled princess who rotted to her core.”

“Enough,” Morgana screeches in Gwen’s face. Her control slips and Merlin can feel it, a loosening of the binds. He throws himself toward the fraying strands, frantic.

Morgana raises a hand, but it’s just a hand. “Enough,” she repeats, calm now, and the moment is lost. “I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here to talk about you.” She straightens as far as her spine allows, and her eyes sweep the space. “There’s a traitor among you.”

Merlin understands now. It’s not blood that Morgana seeks to spill. It’s secrets. His magic slips and slides through his fingers like sand, impossible to grasp.

Arthur frowns. “What are you on about?”

“Poor Arthur. So noble. So gullible. So desperate to believe the best of people that you miss what’s right before your eyes.”

“Tell us what you want and be done with this.”

“Not a what. A who.” Morgana limps to the center of the room, to where her chest awaits. She spreads her arms wide and twirls. “There’s a sorcerer among you. Here, in this very room.”

A murmur spreads through the Great Hall, whispered exclamations. People exchange worried glances. Morgana feasts on it, the stir she’s caused. She always did like to be the center of attention. She carefully, oh so carefully does not look at Merlin.

Arthur’s not amused. “The only sorcerer I see is you.”

“That’s because you do not see. I have spent many years and many lives trying to learn the whereabouts of this man. His name,” Morgana says, “is Emrys.” She fairly spits it, poison on her tongue.

Of all the ways Merlin has dreamt of telling Arthur about his magic, he never thought it would be like this, with the entire court as witness, where Arthur could not help but uphold the letter of the law. 

Morgana has picked her stage well.

Arthur frowns. “I know of no one by that name.”

“Then perhaps you know his face. A crotchety old man, long white beard.”

Arthur can’t hide his shock. “He hasn’t been seen in Camelot for years. Like you, I assumed him dead.”

“Like me, he’s very much alive. While you’ve been off playing with your sword, I’ve spent my every waking hour tracking down his whereabouts. For years, I chased a ghost. But no longer.”

Morgana bends anew to her iron chest. She opens it and steps back.

For a long moment, the box maws, no movement from within. And then an amorphous blob leaps from the chest and splats a few paces away. Several of the servants shriek, that primal fear. The creature—an obscene cross between a slug and a snake—raises an eyeless, mouthless monstrosity of a head and scents the air.

“This,” she says, “is a creature of the Old Religion, the last of its kind. As I am the last of mine.”

“You always did like others to do your dirty work,” Arthur says. “Why don’t you face Emrys yourself?”

“Because he hides behind your skirts,” Morgana taunts.

The creature begins to squiggle forward, as if drawn toward the heat of the fire in the hearth, leaving a trail of sludge in its wake. People gasp and struggle to flee, unable to stem their revulsion.

“Don’t worry,” Morgana says. “The Eancanah does not feed on flesh. It feeds on magic.”

The slug-snake slither-slides along a wall of feet, those still seated at the table in front of Merlin. It stops near the end of the table, where a young serving girl stands. Without warning, the creature leaps an impossible leap, straight for the girl’s head. It suctions on like a leech, wrapping itself around her face. Frantic, the girl’s fingers try to peel it off, but to no avail. She stumbles and drops, writhing on the ground.

“No!” Merlin shouts at the same moment that Gwen cries, “Stop!” For the girl is one of hers.

Miraculously, the creature does, sloughing from the girl’s face. It slithers under the table, out of sight. The girl clings to the ground, gathering her wits. Her braid is askew, face streaked with slime, lips swollen and sucked. She breathes, thick and heavy, but she breathes.

She lives.

“Pity,” Morgana says, and _looks_ at her.

Merlin reaches but he’s too late. He feels it like a sword in the gut.

The girl jerks and slumps, body splayed like a broken toy, head cracking against the stones, light drained from her eyes.

“You killed her,” Gwen shrieks, half hysterical. “You killed Priya. She was just a girl.”

Morgana shrugs. “She had magic.”

Gwen can’t be consoled. “She hadn’t hurt you. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“You’ve found your sorcerer,” Arthur thunders and his voice echoes. “Your quarrel is with me and me alone.”

“Dear brother,” Morgana drawls, “that lovely morsel was merely the appetizer. Now we move to the main course.” She stares intently toward where the slug has disappeared. It nudges its nose from around someone’s foot, recovered enough for another round. “As long as Emrys is alive, he will protect you.”

Merlin clutches at his chest, bruised somewhere deep within. He can’t breathe.

Again, time seems to stretch and warp as that thing slinks toward him. Merlin is acutely aware of the skin that stretches across his bones, the tic under his eye, the breath that flees his lungs, the acrid smell of vinegar and sweat, a drip of it between his shoulder blades. The shadows that dance on Arthur’s face. For it’s to Arthur that Merlin now looks, always looks. 

In a heartbeat, Merlin will be laid bare before him. 

Stripped of his secret. 

Stripped of his magic.

And quite possibly his life.

A calm descends in Merlin’s chest, a stone that settles to the bottom of a deep pond, nothing can touch him down here. He gazes, unflinching, at Arthur. He must see, the moment Arthur sees.

The slug-serpent draws close, as close as it had been to the girl. It lifts and scents, waving its snout at the row of servants, a dowser searching for water.

Then it stills. 

If it had eyes, they would look right at Merlin.

The creature leaps.

A sword slices through the air, inches from Merlin’s face, true as an arrow. It spears the slug and pins it to a nearby tapestry on the wall.

A perfect throw.

An impossible throw.

The slug wiggles and shudders, then goes limp.

Morgana whirls to find Mordred and Percy at the center of a knot of knights, a returning patrol. They spill from a secret passage into the Great Hall, no doubt alerted to trouble upon their return, the sprawl of bodies.

“You,” Morgana hisses, and she throws a hand at them.

But she grows weak, having held the enchantment for too long, and Mordred is not. Already he ducks and rolls, plucking a fresh sword from a fallen brethren. Onward he comes, inevitable as destiny.

Percy fires his crossbow. Morgana deflects with a word but it divides her attention from whatever web she seeks to weave around Mordred. Percy aims his weapon again and Morgana moves. Faster than her feeble limbs should have allowed, faster than any human should be able to move.

One moment she’s at the mercy of Mordred and the next she’s vaulting a table, nimble as a spider, scuttling behind Arthur. If she can’t have Emrys, then at least she can have him. Yet it’s not to Arthur that she reaches. Instead, her fingers wrap around Gwen’s throat and she wrenches. 

Gwen staggers up from her chair. In the same moment, Arthur lunges for them with everything he is and so does Merlin, unleashing his magic. It surges to Arthur, as it has so many times before. It fills his limbs and licks up his sword and blazes from his very eyes.

Yet—impossibly, improbably, inconceivably—Arthur goes nowhere, feet firmly planted. He flails and catches himself on the table. And there he stays, fingers curled, outstretched to Gwen.

“Stay back,” Morgana commands, Gwen as her shield. Mordred scrabbles to a stop, sword still at the ready. Percy lowers his bow, but only an inch.

“Don’t harm her,” Arthur says. 

“Please,” he says.

“I’ll do anything,” he says.

“Yes,” Morgana snaps. “You will. Our little reunion didn’t go as I hoped, but I will still have Emrys. In five days, you will bring him to the Dark Tower.” Morgana’s fingers twist. Gwen chokes. “Or your bedwarmer here will die.”

Morgana chants, all guttural consonants and flashing eyes. As she does, the bindings around Merlin flicker and fray, her strength dwindled, attention elsewhere. He strains and his magic explodes, rushing from him like a wave. The fire in the hearth goes out with the force of it.

A tornado of dark smoke billows through the hall. When it clears, when eyes have adjusted to the feeble light of a waning moon, they see.

Morgana is gone.

And so is Gwen.


	3. Chapter 3

Knights and nobles converge on Arthur, who has dropped back into his chair, unseeing. Around him, arguments swirl, everyone disagreeing on what they should do next. He says nothing, merely twirls a flower stem between two fingers. Merlin hasn’t seen this expression on his face since Uther’s deathbed.

Gwaine slams a fist on the table. “We should send a patrol. Now. Catch her unawares.”

Arthur pushes to his feet, shoulders bowed under some heavy weight. Again, the rabble quiets, his people await. “We take no action this night. We will speak of this in the morning. A council meet at dawn.”

Gwaine doesn’t let it go. “But sire, we can’t just—”

“Enough,” Arthur says, so quiet. Gwaine subsides. “We’ll speak in the morning. When we can all think clearly.”

Arthur brushes past everyone and strides out of the Great Hall. Merlin trails, keeping quiet for once because there are no words right now after that girl—Priya, was her name—just died in his place. He feels as numb as Arthur looks. 

Arthur stops at the door to his chambers and half-turns. He won’t meet Merlin’s eyes. “You too, Merlin.”

Uncharacteristically, Arthur fumbles with the key, fingers clumsy and fat and not from the wine. Merlin eases it from him, nudges him away. He lets them in, closes the door behind, blocking out the world.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Arthur doesn’t seem to know where he is, lost in the middle of the room. “Not your fault.”

“Still, I should have—” Merlin trails off, no way to finish. Arthur doesn’t notice.

Merlin steps forward, to do something, anything. He reaches for Arthur.

Arthur shrugs away. “What are you doing?”

“Undressing you.”

Arthur won’t look at him. “I can undress myself. Leave me.”

But Merlin can’t leave him like this, not when Arthur is likely to be up all night, driving himself mad with what ifs. “Arthur.”

“Leave me,” Arthur bellows, all his fear and rage and pain. Merlin goes rigid, all formal and servant, and Arthur’s eyes go soft and sad, at what he’s done. “Just,” he says. “Leave me.” It’s almost a sob, but that can’t be right because Arthur never cries.

Merlin leaves.

The last thing he sees as the door swings closed is Arthur slumped on his bed, face in hand, dress robes draped about him like a shroud.

* * *

 

Merlin steps into his own chambers. They’re cold and dark, the fire having petered out hours before. He gives it a stern glance, and it snaps and crackles back to life, a paltry ward against the hollow cavern in his chest.

The room remains unchanged, every available surface littered with supplies and half-finished projects. Merlin hasn’t yet found it in him to tidy up the place. It’s been nearly a year since Gaius puttered out to gather herbs for the last time. Yet when Merlin cracks the door to their chambers (he still thinks of them as theirs), there’s always a split second where he expects to see the old man hunched over his latest project.

Only for a moment, until he remembers.

Merlin stands at the epicenter of a time long past and has never felt more alone. There’s no one for him to talk to, to bounce ideas off. No one to tell him that giving himself up to Morgana is a supremely bad idea. 

If Gaius were here, Merlin is no longer sure what he would say. They’ve had this conversation before, a hundred times. As Morgana became but a memory, Gaius began to drop hints that perhaps it was time. After all, he wasn’t getting any younger. Perhaps, like many, he’d hoped to see the prophecy come to pass in his lifetime.

Yet Merlin resisted.

He raised a thousand excuses. The time still isn’t ripe, it’s too soon after Morgana, it’s winter, you know how tetchy Arthur is in winter, we should wait until the treaty with Cenred’s successor, then treaties with Mercia and North and South Umbria. 

Peace is a fragile creature, as ephemeral as mist. It’s likely to slip through your fingers at the slightest provocation. Merlin didn’t want his magic to unsettle the world that Arthur had worked so hard to build, didn’t want the ideals upon which Camelot is built exposed as a lie. In their last discourse on the subject, Merlin had told Gaius they should wait until peace had a chance to take hold, to spread roots deep and wide and then. 

And then.

Then, one day, Arthur took Merlin aside with such sorrow on his face that Merlin thought for a moment someone had died. And in a way, someone had because Arthur told him that he and Gwen were barren. Merlin doesn’t want to even think about how Gaius determined this, and it’s still unclear whether it’s her or him. The years had stretched, and there was no Pendragon heir. It was a popular topic of gossip at court. Oh, the nobles didn’t speak about it to Arthur directly, but Merlin had big ears.

Merlin didn’t even know what to say, when Arthur told him, one of the few. “Sorry for your loss” seemed woefully inaccurate and inadequate.

Gwen and Arthur cope in their own way, Gwen nurturing her ladies-in-waiting, Arthur grooming his young knights. He extends their usual training into lessons of history and mathematics and—gods forbid—literature. Most of the younglings subjected to this torture squirm and wiggle. It’s the few who don’t that Arthur now has his eyes on.

Gwen and Arthur seem to have made their peace with it, a peace of a different sort that Merlin is equally as loathe to shatter. He’s not sure he wants to find out what Arthur might do now, if he learns Merlin has magic. Arthur has fought tooth and nail for peace, only to have his legacy threatened by the lack of a child. Like his father before him, he might try to play god, consequences be damned. Merlin doesn’t want to put Arthur in that position. He doesn’t want to put himself in that position.

Yet Merlin has imagined, oh how he has imagined, until he can almost taste it on his tongue. What Arthur would say, what Arthur would do. In these fantasies, Merlin always told Arthur under his own terms, his own timing. Not dictated by the whims of a madwoman. 

Merlin turns on his heels and flees the chambers. He can’t stay here, this place too small to contain the thoughts and doubts and hopes and fears that buffet in his chest, rending him in all directions. His magic roils with it, seeking some release.

Behind him, the fire snuffs out.

* * *

 

His steps draw him up, up, up, to the tippy top of the castle, the tallest tower, where there is space and air and a reminder that the world is so incredibly big, his problems quite small. He comes here often to breathe, to think. Now he’s even glad of the cold, which numbs his hands and heart, slowing his swirling thoughts.

Then he sees he’s not alone.

A dark shape draped in a cloak stands looking out over the battlement, as if on guard. But there are never any guards here, in this place he thinks of as his own.

It could be anyone.

Merlin knows it’s not.

Mordred hasn’t yet seen him, lost in quiet contemplation of the dark landscape. Merlin turns, silent as a shade, and slinks back toward the stairs.

“Merlin,” Mordred says. He doesn’t turn. Like Merlin, he doesn’t need to see to know.

In the early years, Mordred called to him often. Until he learned that Merlin would ignore him when he could, pretending he did not hear. Merlin has avoided Mordred for years, a delicate dance. He’s civil enough to him in company but quick to divert his steps elsewhere to avoid being alone with him. And Mordred’s initial hero-worship of the myth had faded and dulled when faced with the man—one who had yet to bring magic back to the land.

Merlin thought he’d been successful in hiding his distaste for the knight. Right up until the moment about a year ago when Arthur commented on it. It was after Mordred had returned from a patrol and had stopped by Arthur’s quarters to give a quick report, a routine in-and-out, something Mordred had done a hundred times. Yet this time, when he left, Arthur said, almost offhand, “You don’t like him much.”

It wasn’t even a question.

Merlin tread carefully. “What makes you say that?” He kept his voice light and continued getting Arthur ready for bed. And if he stayed out of eye contact longer than needed, well.

“When he comes to my chambers, you hover.”

Arthur was perceptive at the most inconvenient of times.

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t play stupid. You know what you do.”

“I was removing your armor. Next time, would you like me to stop? Shall I maintain a certain distance at all times from your royal person when we’re not alone?”

Arthur had thrown up his hands. “Of course not. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother.”

Merlin thought that would be the end of it. But a few weeks later, on the training field, it came up again. Merlin was on the sidelines, tightening Arthur’s clasps between bouts. They watched as Percy swept out some unfortunate’s feet and raised his arms in a victory salute, crowing about his long and glorious reign as King of the Mountain.

“We’ll see about that,” Arthur muttered, but Mordred beat him to it, stepping up to be the next to take Percy on. 

At first, it looked as though Percy’s reign would continue. Nimble though he might be, Mordred was but a sapling next to Percy’s mighty oak. Percy’s sheer size and strength kept Mordred on the defensive, parrying bruising blows with a shield that seemed made of paper. Mordred could hardly get close enough to use his sword.

But Arthur knew what was coming. “Now,” he murmured, just as Mordred stepped under Percy’s guard and shoved. Percy landed ponderous, like a felled tree, his surprise evident. He didn’t often take a tumble. The other knights pounced, trying to keep him pinned to the ground, rubbing his face in it. 

Yet Mordred hung back from the fray. Instead, he smiled over at them—Arthur and Merlin—so very wide. Arthur gave him a victory fist. Merlin looked to his fingers.

“You’re doing it again,” Arthur said.

Merlin yanked. “I assure you that these are as tight as I can—”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Merlin wants to bang his head against Arthur’s armor. Arthur continues, “He seeks your approval.”

“I’m not his king.”

“Yet you are something to him.”

Merlin had stepped back, armor tightened, no longer sure where to put his hands. “Where is this coming from? Has he said something?”

“He doesn’t have to.” And then Arthur was gone, calling ahead, “I’m glad somebody could cut him down to size.”

After that, Merlin tried to force himself to ease up, an oxymoron if ever there was one. Perhaps his distrust of Mordred is unjustified. Mordred shows no signs of fulfilling the destiny Merlin had seen in a pool. Over the years, the lad has proven himself an exceptional knight. Arthur leans on him almost as heavily as Leon, no doubt due to Mordred's uncanny ability to complete even the most difficult of missions. Of course, no one but Merlin knows that he has a bit of help.

The knights have taken to calling him Arthur’s Bane. As in, the bane of Arthur’s enemies.

Mordred is a reflection of everything Merlin could have been, had he been willing to share his secret (and a tad more athletically inclined). Merlin could have been the one with a seat at the round table, the one to cross weapons with Arthur, to stand by his side in every battle. Instead, that honor falls to Mordred.

Merlin remains forever in the shadows.

So of course it’s Mordred who has usurped Merlin’s tower this night. Whose steps Merlin’s magic has inexorably drawn him to. For Mordred is also the only person left in Camelot who knows who Merlin truly is. 

Mordred says, “I couldn’t sleep, either.”

Merlin doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him. But he doesn’t leave, either. He sighs, a weary thing. “No one will sleep this night.”

If Mordred is surprised that Merlin stays, he doesn’t show it. He angles his body, just enough to include Merlin in his space, an opening he’s always been willing to give. “I thought you’d be with Arthur, plotting into the wee hours.” 

For a long moment, Merlin doesn’t respond, doesn’t want to betray Arthur’s weakness to Mordred. “His Highness needs time to think. To prepare for the council.”

The corner of Mordred’s lip curls, a knowing thing. “He sent you away as well.” 

It rankles, the idea that Mordred had also offered himself as confidante. At least Arthur had been consistent.

“He has much to ponder.”

“He’s afraid. As he should be. She’s grown strong. You could not stop her.” This is what Mordred cannot help but do, probe at Merlin’s weakness, like a bruise.

Merlin bites, “She caught me unawares. It won’t happen again.” He won’t betray, how much Morgana’s strength had shaken him. 

“Perhaps.” Then Mordred asks it, the question branded into Merlin’s brain since Morgana issued her ultimatum. “What will you do?”

This is the question Merlin aches to discuss with Gaius, with Arthur, his mother, his father, Gwen, Gwaine—anyone who isn’t Mordred. But it’s Mordred who knows, who’s here, whose eyes watch him, filled with the moon.

Merlin leans against the battlement, looking toward the north. If he used his sight, he might be able to see it, the Dark Tower, off in the distance. Or perhaps it’s too far, even for him. 

He says, “I don’t know.”

Gravity weighs heavy on them both. They stand high above the world. It’s a long way to the ground.

“Perhaps,” Mordred says, a whisper, as if he hardly dares think. “Perhaps it’s time.”

Merlin recoils. “Not like this. Not because of Morgana.”

Mordred steps closer, too close. “Then tell him now, on your own terms, before we face her.”

“There’s always another way. I just need time to find it.”

“You gamble with Gwen’s life.”

“Morgana has taken people before. This is no different.”

“Everything’s different. She’s not the Morgana we knew. She’s mad. Nothing will keep her from Emrys. Not this time. We can’t let Arthur get close to her.”

Merlin almost laughs. “There’s nothing in the world that will keep him from going to Gwen.”

“He might if you trusted him enough to tell him the truth.” Mordred turns to him then, earnest and eager. “Together, you and I could ride ahead—”

Merlin’s already shaking his head. “I won’t leave him. For all we know, that’s exactly what Morgana wants.”

The light leeches from Mordred’s eyes. Sometimes, his expression is terrifying. “Then you leave me no choice. If you won’t tell Arthur, I will.”

Merlin draws up. He wishes he’d never come here now, this conversation as inevitable as doom. He pivots slowly, using every inch he has to tower over Mordred, closer than they've been in years.

“No,” Merlin says, deadly calm. “You won’t.”

Mordred shifts back on his heels, subtle, but he raises his chin. “You can’t stop me. It doesn’t work like that.”

Merlin’s face is a sheer cliff. “Say one word to Arthur, and you’ll no longer be a knight. I’ll make sure of it.”

“There’s nothing you can tell him that will make him turn from me.” But doubt has crept into Mordred’s eerie eyes.

“Believe me, there is,” Merlin says. “If you destroy my life, I’ll destroy yours. And I won’t even use magic.”

Merlin whirls and leaves him then, shivering alone in the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn has not yet blushed when Merlin cracks the door to Arthur’s chambers, a plate balanced on one arm and a jug crooked in the other. At this hour, Arthur should be burrowed in bed, clutching at his blankets and the final precious moments of sleep. 

Yet Merlin’s not surprised to find him up and clothed, poring over maps that spread across his table and spill onto the floor. When Merlin sets down the jug, Arthur startles and squints, first up at him then at the delicate tendrils of light just visible through the window.

“It’s time,” Merlin says and proffers the plate. 

Arthur waves it away with a vague “Later.” His eyes are crisp and clear, no visible evidence of a sleepless night. Yet details betray—smooth sheets, a puddled candle, and the collar of last night’s dress tunic, which peeks from beneath a fresh cloak. 

Arthur scribbles a feverish note on a parchment, then rolls it up and sweeps from the room, brisk. Merlin hurries to catch up.

Shoulder to shoulder, they enter the cavernous council room, at its heart the Round Table that’s already become something of a legend across the land. Despite the early hour and the revelry of the previous evening, Arthur is the last to round to his chair. The room is as muted as a funeral, devoid of the usual good-natured banter that prefaces a council meeting. Merlin diverts to stand like a sentinel against his usual column nearby, positioned so he can watch Arthur’s profile. He’s the only servant present. 

Solemn, the knights wait for Arthur to sit, to speak. Next to him, an empty chair gapes like a wound.

“Thoughts,” he says.

That does it, breaks the dam, releasing a swirl of ideas and questions and arguments. Arthur isn’t the only one who lost sleep pondering the problem. Predictably, Gwaine’s the loudest. He still wants to sneak attack, a small band of knights to extract Gwen from under Morgana’s nose.

“A small group stands no chance,” says Sir Kenneth. “We need more swords. I say we bring the whole of Camelot down on her head.”

“A decoy,” Percy says. “I could pretend to be Emrys and get close enough to use a knife.”

Gwaine scoffs. “You won’t get close.”

Through it all, Arthur listens, stoic like a statue of an ancient king, letting his knights vent the fear and impotence that lend an edge to their words. He betrays nothing of what he thinks, shows no surprise at each new suggestion, even as they grow outlandish, knights grasping at straws. Only Merlin can see how tightly Arthur grips his sword fist beneath the table. He’s certain Arthur has considered all reasonable options, and more besides.

Arthur already knows, what he must do.

Some problems can’t be solved with a sword.

Sir Leon has remained nearly as silent as the King. But when he shifts in his seat, subtle, everyone defers. His words carry nearly as much weight as Arthur’s. “Magic,” he says, “is the only weapon Morgana fears.” He looks to Arthur. “We need Emrys.”

“Emrys might not even exist,” says Sir Ector, who was old even in Uther’s day. “Morgana is delusional. She sees sorcerers in every shadow.”

At this, Arthur speaks for the first time. Voice low, yet everyone hears. “I think she’s right.”

“My Lord?” Sir Ector asks, flushing at the contradiction.

Arthur looks up, gazing over the heads of the knights at something only he can see. “I’ve mulled over what Morgana said. And I think she’s right. There’s a sorcerer in Camelot.”

The knights murmur at this, eying each other with concern. The years have softened Camelot’s attitude toward magic, but the old fear still runs wide and deep.

Merlin stays very, very still. He senses that whatever comes next, it’s important.

“It explains much,” Arthur says. “These past years, Camelot has enjoyed more than our share of good fortune.”

Merlin feels it, the first, fragile seedlings of hope in his chest. Arthur seems so calm, so certain, as though perhaps Morgana has merely confirmed, something he never quite let himself suspect.

“Are you saying Camelot flourishes because of sorcery?” Sir Ector hisses, the word sour on his tongue. He’s from the old guard, one of the few remaining knights who served under Uther, the only one who was a knight before the Great Purge. He remembers, what it was like. 

“I’m saying that we can’t be sure of the sorcerer’s intentions.”

“He’s a sorcerer,” says Sir Ector in disbelief.

Merlin clenches his jaw before he does something stupid, like open it. It’s been years since he’s heard such vitriol about magic. He’d thought that this level of prejudice had passed with Uther. Yet it seems Uther’s insidious beliefs are like a cancer, impossible to root out, not entirely. Magic has all but disappeared from Camelot. But it has not been forgotten.

“Magic doesn’t make a person a monster.” Trust Gwaine to have Merlin’s back even when he doesn’t know it.

“Look at Morgana,” Sir Ector says. “Anyone can see what magic has—”

“I’ll have you remember,” Arthur says, “she’s my sister.”

Sir Ector misses it, the warning that underlies Arthur’s words. He’s on a roll, face red and sweaty, working himself apoplectic. “Exactly. Magic has decimated your entire family.”

The room goes deathly silent. There have always been rumors, of course, but only a few know the truth about Arthur’s mother, his father, even among the knights. Somehow, Arthur doesn’t flinch, no sign that the topic cuts him to the heart. 

Arthur speaks loud. He speaks clear. “And a sword killed your son. Does that make all swords evil?”

Sir Ector’s mouth works, but he has no counter, as though the thought has never occurred to him, that magic could be a tool like any other. Around the table, Merlin sees similar awareness dawn. Hope unfurls further, brighter. He’s never heard Arthur speak like this in public, not once. In the early years, they sometimes bandied about ideas like this in private, when Merlin still sought to influence Arthur about magic.

But that was before Uther.

Whatever doubt Arthur had about the use of magic died with his father. Over time, he’s relaxed the penalty for magic, yes, but it’s not because he harbors goodwill toward sorcerers. He merely doesn’t believe in executing people without proof. And in cases of magic, there usually isn’t any. It’s one person’s word against another. 

So whatever Arthur’s doing now, Merlin tells himself, it’s to get Gwen back. No more, no less.

“Sir Leon is right,” Arthur says. “We must find this Emrys.”

“There’s no guarantee that she’ll honor the bargain,” says Sir Leon.

“Nor will I,” Arthur says. “If Morgana is to be believed, Emrys is a citizen of Camelot. I will not bargain with his life, even to save the Queen’s.” 

A murmur of uneasy disbelief at this. Even Merlin can’t believe what Arthur is saying. That he’d go to such lengths, to protect the sorcerer who killed his father.

“Then you condemn the Queen to death,” says Sir Ector.

“Not if we find Emrys—”

“But you said—”

“—and we ask for his help. Magic is the only weapon we have against Morgana.”

Merlin almost can’t breathe. Arthur has _thought_. Oh, how Arthur has thought. He’s nine steps ahead of them all. It’s like this crisis has released something in him, something long dormant.

Sir Ector is fit to burst. “If you do this, you’ll publicly condone the use of magic. You’ll undo everything your father worked for.”

“For Gwen, I will do whatever it takes. Even if it takes magic.”

Sir Ector’s chair scrapes, loud. He stands, ponderous, ominous. “I’ve spent my life rooting out sorcery. I will not be part of this.”

Arthur stands as well, unfurls to his full height, as if to remind Sir Ector that he’s no longer a boy, he’s every inch a man. Every inch a King. “Then you are dismissed. Leave us.” 

Stunned, Sir Ector doesn’t move. He can scarce believe it, that Arthur deigns to send him away. 

“Your father,” he says, spittle flying, “would be ashamed.”

Arthur doesn’t budge. “It won’t be the first time. Leave. Now.”

Sir Ector draws himself up, the last vestiges of his honor. Then he leaves, his antiquated armor clanking with each step. Only when he’s gone, when the doors slam behind him, does Arthur sit back in his chair.

It’s not the first time Sir Ector has challenged Arthur’s authority. 

It will be the last.

Arthur’s gaze circumnavigates the table, measuring them all. “If anyone else feels as Sir Ector, you may join him.”

No one moves. No one at all.

Arthur sags minutely in his seat, almost in relief, the only hint that the confrontation with Sir Ector took more out of him than he would admit.

“Now,” he says, his tone more gentle. “I must ask you all. Is there anyone here, around this table, who knows of Emrys?”

Silence deafens.

“Please,” Arthur says, and there’s something new and raw in his voice. His mask slips. He speaks to them no longer as their King, but as Arthur. “We shall go round the table. If you know anything, anything at all, I implore you to share. There’s no tidbit too small. And there will be no penalty. I swear it on my life.”

Arthur nods at Gwaine, who sits to his left. One by one, the knights shake their heads or chime an emphatic “No, my Lord.” One by one, Arthur eagle-eyes them, sharp and focused, searching their faces the way only he can. 

Merlin waits for the axe to drop. There are so many familiar faces around this table, men he’s gone into battle with, eyes that could easily have seen him do something out of the ordinary to spare Arthur’s life. Merlin might never even have noticed, so focused is he on Arthur, always Arthur. If they know something, they will say it. They must. For, like Merlin, they will deny Arthur nothing.

Yet round and round it goes, a litany of no.

Until they come to Mordred.

Mordred, who sits a few seats to Arthur’s right, who doesn’t look up from his hands, who up until now has been unusually silent. Mordred, the only knight who hesitates. 

“Mordred?” Arthur prompts.

Mordred comes to some decision and looks up. But not to Arthur. He looks past the King, to where Merlin stands in the sidelines. Their gazes lock.

He says, loud and clear, “No, Sire.”

Arthur frowns, uncertain how to interpret this tone. He won’t let this go. “You’ve been quiet. What do you think we should do?”

Again, Mordred hesitates a beat too long. He continues to bore into Merlin.

“I think,” he says, “we should ask Merlin.”

Heads swivel to Merlin, who remains still from years of practice. Arthur is the last to look, but look he does, something in his face, an intensity behind his eyes.

“Ask me what?” Merlin says. His voice doesn’t even shake. He looks back at Mordred, the sneaky little snake.

Mordred says, “Gaius found Emrys once.”

Merlin stands stiff and straight. He looks to Arthur now, an apology in his eyes. “I’m sorry. Gaius kept his sources secret, even from me.”

Arthur stares at him a beat longer, that strange energy. Then he blinks, some spell broken. He turns back to his knights with renewed vigor. “Our top priority is to find Emrys. I’m sure with proper motivation, Gaius’ source will come forward. I’ll hold the announcement today. And we should send envoys to the villages.”

Everyone nods, the King’s word is final. There’s a flurry of movement in the hall as knights surge to their feet, hurrying to fulfill the King’s wishes, glad at last to have somewhere useful to focus their energy. 

Arthur stands but lingers, waving Mordred aside. He leans in and places a hand on Mordred’s shoulder. Merlin drifts closer, the better to hear.

“I have a special task for you,” Arthur says, low. “I’d like you to ride for the Druids.”

At the word, Merlin chills.

Mordred smiles. His eyes flick again to Merlin. He thinks he’s won. “Of course. I’ll leave straight away.”

If Mordred can find but a single Druid who’s willing to speak, to tell the King what they know of Emrys, it will be all over. Likely there are those of Mordred’s brethren who feel as he does, that it’s past time for Emrys to reveal himself to Camelot.

It’s past time for Emrys to fulfill his destiny.

Merlin can only watch, helpless, as Mordred strides away.

* * *

The courtyard is filled to the brim with all of Camelot, more people than Merlin has seen in this place, even for an execution. And still the crowd swells, spilling out into the streets of the upper town.

The King has called, and they have come. Arthur now stands on the castle steps, flanked by his knights, his expression grave. At the appointed time, he speaks. He informs the people that Morgana has returned, that she threatens Gwen’s life. As he’d done with his knights, he begs them for anything on the whereabouts of Emrys, who, should he come forward, will be a guest of the crown. 

There will be a reward, he says.

Word travels quickly, through heralds who echo the King’s words all the way down to the lower town. _Emrys_ , people whisper, a snake’s hiss. He becomes the talk of Camelot, the name on everyone’s lips.

* * *

 

Within the hour, a line of peasants stretches down the castle corridor and trails out onto the castle steps. They queue for an audience with the King, anyone who thinks they know anything about Emrys. For they all love their Queen and they loved her even before she was Queen, when she was only Guinevere.

Merlin forces himself to remain in the audience chamber long enough to determine that, despite their best intentions, the people of Camelot can’t know about a man who doesn’t exist. On any other day, Arthur and Merlin might have quirked eyes at each other, at the outrageous stories. They might have struggled not to laugh.

But this day, it’s deadly serious. Arthur is unsmiling, giving each new person his undivided attention, leaning forward. Afterward, he extends an honest thanks and sends knights to check on every lead, no matter how small. 

Soon, there will be no more knights to send.

* * *

When Merlin can’t take it anymore, the way his heart rabbits at each new voice, he abandons Arthur to his never-ending audience and escapes to the library. There, he slides in to the forgotten room behind the bookcase and spends hours sneezing his way through dusty, forbidden books, searching for a clue as to the source of Morgana’s newfound power.

He’s only halfway through a stack of books as tall as he is when he closes his current tome, soft like a sigh. He sets it down on the floor, gentle.

Then he sets it on fire.

It’s a pleasure, to watch it burn.

When it’s blackened to ash, pages charred and illegible, Merlin lays his head on his arms, feeling as though someone has splayed and flayed him alive. He wishes he could scrub his own eyes, cleanse them of what they’ve seen, too many crude diagrams of rituals that involve blood and guts and—gods forbid—infants. 

The things people will do, for power.

There’s a reason these books are hidden.

* * *

 

Later, Merlin paces Arthur’s chambers in a restless rhythm, fingers brushing this or that, poking every so often at the fire. He’s nearly completed his tenth circuit of the immaculate room when he finally finally finally hears the turn of the key.

Arthur slips into his chambers without his usual level of fanfare, alone, and latches the door behind him. He sags for a long moment with his back to the door, head lolling against the wood.

Then he takes a step and kicks over a chair.

It skids toward the bed, toward Merlin, who’s frozen in the act of plumping pillows. Arthur draws up, and they stare at each other through the canopy.

“I thought—” Merlin hefts a limp pillow, feeling out of place.

Since they’d been wed, Gwen attends the King herself in his chambers, one of the many perks of a servant queen. Merlin still dresses Arthur in his armor, but he spends less time in the King’s bedroom than he used to. So now the sheets are tucked differently than he remembers. And there’s evidence that Arthur sleeps on the right side, perhaps because it’s closer to the door.

Arthur stares at him a second too long. “Of course.” He stalks behind his privacy screen. “What news from the envoys?”

Merlin rounds the bed and rights the chair. “None, Sire.”

“Strange,” Arthur says, draping his cloak over the screen. Merlin hurries and snags it before it slumps to the floor. “Mordred should have returned by now.”

“The Druids are not easy to find.” 

“Which is why I sent Mordred.” Merlin assumes this refers to the young knight’s uncanny tracking ability, which rivals Arthur’s.

Merlin takes his time hanging the cloak in the wardrobe, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. He fights to keep his voice casual as he asks the next question, the only one that matters. “Did you learn anything of Emrys?”

“I did,” Arthur says, and his tone is flat.

“And?” Merlin hovers in space, useless, nothing to do with his hands.

Arthur steps from behind the screen, sans shirt. Merlin turns away to light candles. Even though it’s too early for candles.

“Let’s see,” Arthur says, ticking off with his fingers. “I learned that he lives at the top of the tallest mountain, at the bottom of a lake, and in a cave. Depending on who you ask, he’s an old man, a young boy, or a crone. He or she has caused all sorts of ills across the kingdom, including poor weather, withered crops, and dead pigs. Oh, and he can turn himself into a bird.”

“Handy, that,” Merlin says. He feels giddy with it, relief.

Arthur frowns at him. “It’s too early for candles.” 

“I’m…making sure they still work. Which they do, so.” With thumb and forefinger, Merlin pinches the flame back out.

Arthur rolls his eyes and disappears back behind the screen. Although from the silence that follows, he doesn’t seem to be dressing, moving, anything. This usually means he’s thinking. At long last, Arthur says, quiet and small, “I don’t understand why he won't come forward. If he’s as powerful as Morgana thinks, why is he afraid?”

“Perhaps even he is leery of what she’s become.”

“Or perhaps he’s leery of me. And rightly so.” Merlin clamps down on a wick too hard. His flesh sizzles, and he yanks his hand back. Something in the way Arthur says this…

“You said he’d be a guest of the crown,” Merlin says around the fingers in his mouth. So it comes out more like _august of the crow_ , but Arthur gets it anyway.

“He will be.” Arthur steps from behind the screen. Oddly, he wears a fresh tunic, but not one for sleep. “Until I have Gwen.”

“And then?”

Arthur slings on his sword belt and cinches it with a flourish. “There will be a trial for the murder of Uther Pendragon.” 

The spare candle in Merlin’s hand snaps in half and of course. There’s no longer a serious penalty for magic. But there’s still one for murder. No matter what Emrys might do to help Arthur now, Arthur will never forget what he did at their last encounter.

Arthur side-steps Merlin’s open-mouthed dismay to retrieve his sword. Merlin’s thinking all kinds of things like _Arthur lied_ and _Arthur never lies_ and _Arthur is retrieving his sword_.   

“Since when do you wear your sword to bed?”

Arthur sighs, grim. “I’m not going to bed.”

“Then where—?”

“We’re going for a ride. Prepare the horses.”

Merlin can’t quite process this. “It will be dark soon.” They rarely ride out at dark. It’s always first light.

“We’ve just enough light to get there.”

“Get where?”

But Arthur’s already out the door. As Merlin scrambles to follow, Arthur pops his head back in. “Oh, and inform Leon, will you?”

The candle becomes a crumble in Merlin’s fist.


	5. Chapter 5

Leon answers the door to Merlin’s pounded fist, already half-dressed and ready for the next emergency. When Merlin explains to him that Arthur plans to ride out tonight and alone, Leon will hear none of it. They both know—it’s unwise for Arthur to ride from the safety of Camelot right now, much less alone. 

Leon threatens to send a contingent of knights after them, whether the King wills it or no. “They can follow at a discreet distance—”

Merlin’s already shaking his head. He senses that Arthur has been too wise for too long and now itches to do something foolish, like in the days of his youth. He’ll flaunt Uther’s restrictions and ride off alone on this quest, certain that he and he alone can save the day.

“He needs this,” Merlin says, and Leon looks doubtful. “I’ll protect him.” 

Somehow, that does it. Leon relaxes and gives a tight nod, as though he accepts that Merlin will do exactly that. Or maybe he means _you’d better_.

As Merlin bids adieu and scampers away to prepare the horses, Merlin hears Leon mutter something about _kings who need to be saved from themselves_.

* * *

 

They stream from the stables like wraiths, silent and swift—and alone.

In times like these when Arthur doesn’t want to be seen, Merlin’s magic ensures they’re not. It tucks round them, tighter than the hooded cloaks that would do little to disguise them should anyone truly look. But no one does, idle glances slip and slide away, nothing to see here. Stragglers who wend home after the day’s labors step aside and make way, though they are not aware it’s for their King.

Soon, they sweep through the east gate, the guard’s heads turning seconds too late with a “What was that?” and an uneasy shrug. Even they don’t see, Merlin’s magic lulls and dulls, leaving them only with a niggle that there’s something they’ve missed.

When they’re free of the castle, Arthur lets his steed have its head. It’s been so long, Torrento seems as eager as his rider to stretch his legs. Merlin’s own mount, a fiery filly aptly named Diablo, responds to the challenge, not to be left behind. She has an unhealthy preoccupation with Torrento, or perhaps it’s Arthur. On the rare occasions when Arthur rides out without Merlin, she kicks at the stables and nips at anyone in reach. Merlin rides her because she’s the only other mount in the stables who can keep up with the King.

They thunder through the forest, reckless and glorious. Merlin hangs on and uses his magic to smooth their passage as best he can, coaxing the path ahead to shape and soften. Rocks sink, branches curl away. The horses sense it and embrace it, letting the energy surround them and flow through them, until their hooves scarce touch the ground, the closest they’ll come to flying.

It’s exhilarating and strangely mesmerizing. The world around them blurs until it’s the two of them, Arthur blazing the lead, Merlin as inseparable as shadow, both cocooned and safe in magic. They ride and ride and ride, until Merlin almost can’t remember what it’s like not to ride, this endless twilight, the ageless rhythm, the wind in his hair, Arthur and eternity before him.

This moment, it could last forever.

Yet reality begins to seep and creep, as it inexorably must. If Arthur willed it, Torrento and Diablo would run themselves into the ground. And it wouldn’t be the first time Merlin’s weary limbs betray him and tip him to the earth. The horses’ chests heave and their flanks froth and their nostrils splay wide, sucking breaths as deep and timeless as the ocean. Merlin’s thighs ache. Arthur, though he barrels ahead, straight and strong, even he shows signs of it, the pace of the day, him up before dawn and longer besides.

Merlin's glad when the earth swells gently, rising to bar their way, slowing them from their impossible gallop first to a canter, then to a lumpy trot that rattles Merlin’s teeth. Finally, as the earth rises above their heads, they walk, picking their way through a rocky gully cut between two banks, the bones of some ancient river, now run dry.

In earlier days, this would have been an ideal place for an ambush. The thought occurs to them both, old habit, yet they brush it away like a horse’s tail would a fly. Those days are past, and the gully is nothing but a gully.

Or so they tell themselves. They are but halfway through when they hear it.

A branch snaps somewhere ahead.

Merlin catches but a glimpse of some movement ahead before Arthur reins so hard his steed rears, forelegs thrashing the air. Already, Merlin streams his magic like veins through the earth below, ready for any new threat. When Torrento calms, releasing back to all fours, Merlin can see past, to the horse and rider that block their path. 

“Mordred,” Arthur calls, barking a laugh, and Merlin’s good mood evaporates along with his magic, seeping back into the earth from whence it came. On Arthur’s lips, the name sounds incongruously pleasant, like he’s just received an unexpected gift. He knees Torrento forward, drawing abreast of Mordred, so close they can clasp arms.

Merlin hangs back, wary, some intuition prickling his neck, as though Mordred is merely bait, the trap yet to be sprung. Surely, somewhere in the trees beyond lurk the Druids, timid as deer, too shy to approach. Merlin senses for them, the heartbeats. Yet aside from Arthur’s—steady as an ox—there’s only the rapid pitter-patter of a rabbit and the languorous lub-dub of a snake curled somewhere in the roots of a tree.

Then it’s Mordred who draws his attention, his heart thrumming as rapidly as a dulcimer’s strings, although you’d never guess it from his face. There’s a reason he always wins at any games that involve bluff. Merlin can’t guess if Mordred’s impassivity is due to the fact that his mission was successful. Or it was not.

“Sire,” Mordred says, voice neutral. He carefully, oh so carefully, avoids looking at Merlin.

Arthur cocks his head. That gleam in his eye, it’s almost pride. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you found us.” As though Arthur expected Mordred to come. 

“You weren’t subtle,” Mordred says.

Merlin feels the criticism like a barb. No one should have been able to follow them, their precipitous flight through the forest. Merlin had ensured it, that they slipped like ghosts. Yet Arthur would not know this, would assume their tracks, dug deep, were as easy to follow as the stairs up a turret. Only Merlin knows that it was the magic Mordred had followed, perhaps lingering sparks, or merely some sixth sense that power had washed this way, mighty as a river.

“Come,” Arthur says, reading something or perhaps nothing in Mordred’s face. “Our horses need watering. And then we will talk.”

* * *

 

They lead the horses to a nearby brook and let them drink deep, necks bowed and graceful. It’s peaceful here. The type of peace that can’t last. As Merlin kneels to refill their water skins, Arthur gives Torrento a brisk rub-down and darts glances at Mordred.

Even as Mordred’s presence buoys something in Arthur, it sours something in Merlin. It’s been so long since he and Arthur have been alone, free from the sometimes claustrophobic walls of the castle. He hadn’t wanted it to end, and certainly not so soon, before they’d even begun. Certainly not with Mordred who, by the look of him, grimy and grim, does not come bearing tidings of joy.

Mordred takes his time at the water, scrubbing at his skin as though excoriating his journey. He dunks his head and slings it dry, like a dog.

 _He’s stalling_ , Merlin thinks. It’s not like him, to dither. To shy from giving his report. Merlin can't understand why Mordred is alone, why there’s not at least one Druid with him, to testify before Arthur. Perhaps the Druids would be joining them later, back in Camelot, where there would be witnesses. Perhaps he’d been unable to convince them to parlay with Camelot. Or perhaps—and this Merlin hardly dares hope—the Druids had refused go against the wishes of Emrys.

Horses attended to, Arthur can wait no longer. He joins Mordred by the stream, places a hand on his shoulder.

“Did you find them?”

“I did,” Mordred says, almost reluctant. He steps out from under Arthur’s hand and squares off. Facing whatever this is, head on.

“Did they send an envoy?”

“No.” Mordred has to force out the word. 

Arthur’s eyes narrow, he doesn’t understand. “Then did they agree to meet with me?”

“No,” Mordred says, smaller still.

“What, then?” Arthur asks, desperate. He will not be denied a third time.

“They’re gone,” Mordred says at last, voice as flat as the edge of a blade.

Merlin wonders what this means. Did they refuse him? Did they refuse to betray Emrys, choosing instead to uproot yet again and flee Morgana as they’d fled Uther? Even as he thinks these things, he knows he’s not quite right. If it were that simple, Mordred wouldn’t be so withdrawn, moving as though something pains.

Arthur frowns. “Surely they can’t have gone far. It’s nearly winter, perhaps they’ve merely migrated farther south. We can send another patrol to the coast, to Gedref. Or perhaps to—”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, so quiet, for Arthur babbles. 

“Right,” Arthur says and shuts his mouth. They both look to Mordred.

“They’re gone,” Mordred says again, as though it’s final.

Arthur can’t accept it, what Mordred seems to be saying. “Gone where?”

Mordred roots into the earth, gathering some strength, as though he must draw deep. Eyes unblinking like an owl. 

“Through the veil,” he says.

* * *

 

Once, soon after Arthur had become King, he and Merlin had visited a Druid encampment, to repeat the promise Arthur had made to a dead boy who’d crawled from a well. They’d walked through the vibrant camp, rampant with life and color and diverse citizens, orphans and outlaws from across the land who’d banded together as kindred spirits.

Everyone had dropped what they were doing to stare, and not only at the King of Camelot. For once, Arthur ogled in return as their chores continued on without them, pots stirred and boots polished and laundry scrubbed. Everywhere they looked, magic lit fires and drove nails and called birds to the palm, simple magics as natural as breathing. Eventually, Arthur’s gaze had skittered from the sight, deeply uncomfortable with such blatant use of something he’d considered for so long to be depraved. 

Although even he couldn’t ignore it when a young girl stepped into their path, procured a yellow flower from thin air, and presented it to the King of Camelot. Arthur had knelt to her level and accepted the token, solemn, thanking her in the high language, as though she were a noblewoman at court, eliciting a snaggletoothed smile. Then Arthur had risen to stand before their leader, a shaggy man named Iseldir.

“From this day forth,” Arthur had told him, had told all of them. “The Druid people are friends of Camelot. You will be protected. You will be treated with the respect you deserve.”

Arthur held out his hand.

Iseldir ignored it, drawing him instead into a fierce hug. Arthur’s eyes had gone wide, spine stiff, as he’s not really one for hugs. Around him, people had smiled, the first time Merlin had ever seen the Druids smile, really smile.

* * *

 

After Arthur’s promise, the Druids had stopped running. They’d stopped hiding. And so it was that Mordred had ridden straight to this camp, the same people he’d expected to find.

He tells them, what it looks like now. 

Merlin closes his eyes and he can see it. The earth blackened, as though ravaged by fire. Trees licked by flame, tents ragged with smoking holes, many collapsed. And interspersed between them, the bodies. All shapes and sizes, burned where they stood, where they lay, where they tried to flee. Alive, by the looks of it.

The images are so vivid that Merlin cannot imagine that his mind conjures them. Rather, he becomes aware that they’re from outside himself. Mordred hasn’t communicated wordlessly with Merlin since he was a child. Some unspoken understanding that Merlin would not favor it, that they shouldn’t risk it, that they shouldn’t come to depend on it. He certainly has never communicated with Merlin like this, with images as visceral as these.

Yet somehow, Merlin knows that the visions are from Mordred. On the outside, Mordred’s as placid as an icy lake. Yet underneath, he’s screaming, clawing at the ice above, trying not to drown. His thoughts/feelings/senses are a battering ram, as though he’s too distressed to prevent them from escaping his fractures. They overwhelm Merlin, make it stop. Merlin drowns in them, the sight of people who are no longer people and the smell of burnt flesh, sickeningly sweet, like curdled wine, and the taste of it, like bitter honey on his tongue.

Merlin’s not sure how he doesn’t flinch with it, doesn’t bend and retch with it. Had Arthur been looking, had Arthur not stared at Mordred, transfixed, all he would have seen is Merlin turn his head a few degrees and breathe shallow through his mouth, eyes watering as though with tears.

 _Stop_ , Merlin thinks. 

Yet Mordred, in his grief, cannot seem to hear.

“A dragon?” Arthur asks from somewhere far away.

 _No_ , Merlin wants to say but he can’t say anything at all. All he can do is see and smell and feel, the bile that burns up his throat. 

Dragons spew fire, it’s true. But from the looks of the—bodies? skeletons? roasts?—the angle is all wrong, it’s all so very wrong, and besides, there are only two dragons (maybe one, as Merlin’s old friend seems to have slunk off somewhere dark and deep to die) and they don’t kill for sport or even at all because Merlin has forbid it and—

And then Mordred flashes the image of a smaller frame, perhaps a young girl, arm outstretched, as though she offered a flower to a guest.

 _Stop_ , Merlin thinks again, and this time he makes Mordred stop. Something slams down between them, like a ponderous castle gate. Merlin steels himself, fortifies himself against Mordred, drawing himself up and in so tight. He’s deaf, dumb, and blind to him.

“No,” Merlin says. “It was a person. And there’s only one person who could have done this.”

He doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t have to.

Mordred’s eyes jerk to his, as though for the first time aware that his thoughts were not his own, that the horror had bled from him, profuse like a head wound. He seems petrified, at what he’s done. But if he tries to apologize, if he projects anything at all, Merlin can’t hear it, won’t hear it. He merely stands, eyes downcast, and breathes.

Arthur has also turned away, his back to the both of them, inhaling the cool air that wafts from the water. Merlin can’t see his face, and that’s what Arthur wants. He doesn’t want them to see as he fights for the composure that befits a King. He doesn’t want them to see, his cracks. He’s lost people before, but this is different.

He’d promised them, that they would be protected.

Mordred takes a step forward, hand outstretched as though to grab onto Merlin, make him understand.

Merlin shuns him, stumbling away to gather the horses, who’ve drifted off, nibbling along a tantalizing strip of lush and green. Merlin places a steadying hand on Diablo’s neck, but it’s not to steady her. He lowers his forehead to her mane and breathes her in, the musky, earthy scent of her, the solid, warm alive of her. She senses his distress and—for once—stays firm underneath him, though her skin shivers, aftershocks.

Once, this place was peaceful. 

Now it’s forever tainted by the blood of innocents.

* * *

 

They press on, their pace tempered by the horses’ flagging strength and the dark cloud that Mordred has cast. Merlin feels raw, inside and out. It hurts to look at Mordred, so Merlin doesn’t. It’s not his fault, Merlin tells himself. It’s Mordred who’d found the Druids, who’d been overwhelmed, half-mad with grief at the fate of his kin, perhaps the very people who’d raised him. 

Yet he can’t help but resent the knight’s continued presence. He’d half-hoped that Arthur would send him home, back to Camelot with the rest of the knights, to get some sleep and try not to dream.

But after Mordred’s report, Arthur said nothing.

Nothing at all, merely strode back to Torrento, mounted, and galloped off. In lieu of a direct order, Mordred interprets Arthur’s silence as permission to join them, to embark on their quest. Placing himself between them, as he always does.

They ride, and now it’s not smooth. It’s not easy. The wild abandon from earlier, when it was just Arthur and Merlin, has fled. The weight of the King’s yoke has settled back on Arthur’s shoulders, and he sags with it. He’ll never be free of it. Merlin no longer uses magic to smooth their path because he uses his magic for Arthur and only Arthur. 

Branches whip and rocks trip and hooves slip.

When Arthur veers east, into the wild forest of Glaestig, Merlin understands at last. 

Unerring, the King leads them to a dilapidated hovel, half-hidden beneath overgrown foliage. Even before Arthur reins his horse, Merlin can see he knows his quest is doomed, the curve of his shoulders. The shabby hut looks even worse than the last time they’d been here, wood rotted and roof caved. It’s been neglected for years.

Arthur flings himself from the saddle and flings his reins at Merlin, who fumbles to catch them. Merlin dismounts more slowly, awkwardly holding both horses in hand. Mordred slides from his own horse and hovers to one side, curious yet reserved. He doesn’t dare approach Merlin, ask him who the King seeks.

It takes Arthur three tries to kick open the front door. When he does, it sags off its hinges and releases a stench so rancid they must cover their noses with cloth. Inside, the floor is littered with animal droppings and a liberal coat of dust disturbed here and there by the pitter patter of paws and claws.

“Hello?” Arthur says, though he knows it’s futile.

Merlin sneezes.

From above, something moves.

They cringe and shield themselves with arms, ready to defend against—

Two bundles of fur with bushy tails chase each other, leaping along the beams in the ceiling and escape through a sagging hole in the molded roof. The squirrels poke their heads back in and scold the humans for disturbing their home.

Arthur paces the room like he owns the place.

“Abandoned,” he says, a welling despair. He palms the handle of a broom. “Strange. He left all his things. Everything looks exactly as it was, even down to this.” He nudges clay shards with a toe of his boot.

“It’s broken,” Merlin says.

Arthur scathes at him. “The point is, it’s as though he never came back.”

“I wouldn’t have either, after—” Merlin trails off. They don’t speak of that night.

Arthur won’t be deterred, chasing some rabbit trail seen only by his eyes. “I’m not sure he ever lived here at all.”

Arthur’s voice is flat, eyes dead. The day has stretched too long, disappointments mounting like rocks on a funeral pyre, now an impenetrable wall. He’s reached it, the limit of his endurance. This was his last lead.

Now, there’s no clear path forward. Nothing else he knows to try to find Emrys. It’s out of his hands. He’s powerless, and that’s not a way that Arthur Pendragon likes to feel. 

With a wordless cry, he bares his sword and sweeps it across a table. Its contents crash to the ground, the tinkle of more broken pots that join their brethren. Here, away from the confining walls of Camelot and the expectant eyes of his people, Arthur comes apart. He throws a fit that’s fit for a King. 

He hacks at the desiccated animal carcasses that hang from the ceiling, sending them slumping to the floor, a pyre of bones. Axes at a wooden bench until it fractures and sags. Breaks the broom across his knee and spears it through a window.

From where they cling to the wall, Merlin and Mordred wide-eye each other, astonished and worried, their bad blood momentarily subsumed. It’s not like Arthur, to let anyone see him like this, not even Merlin.

Arthur’s afraid. Some nameless fear festers.

At long last, Arthur stands with his back to them, cloak swirled about him, breath heavy through his nose, head bowed. Even in the midst of this mess he’s made, he's ethereal, baptized golden by the dying rays of the sun that filter through the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” he says to his feet. 

Then he straightens and picks his way past them, out of the hovel, shards crunching and slipping beneath his boots. Mordred trails, close on his heels, anxious. He doesn’t understand, not yet. Merlin follows more slowly. He feels it, too, the weight that crushes.

Arthur steps out into twilight, the sun slipped away. His breath ghosts in the crisp air. “Spread out,” he says. “Perhaps there’s some clue nearby.”

“What are we looking for?” Mordred asks.

“Anything.”

They do as Arthur says, fanning out from the hovel in three directions. Merlin steps behind a copse of straggly trees and half-heartedly kicks at a stump. He’d ducked behind here once, to transform himself into Dragoon. Now he stands and waits for the inevitable.

“Here,” Mordred calls from somewhere in the trees.

Arthur and Merlin converge on his voice. Merlin’s belly is heavy with stone. He knows, exactly what Mordred has found. And what it will mean to Arthur. Several paces into the forest, beneath a canopy of trees, lies a grassy mound with what used to be a tower of rocks stacked at its head.

Unmarked, no way to know whose body now feeds the earth, nor how long it’s been. But Merlin knows. He remembers the man he and Lancelot had found, the original owner of the hut, turned to ice at the dorocha’s touch. Merlin protested that they didn’t have time, that they needed to hurry back to Arthur, before the too-noble idiot sacrificed himself to right yet another of Morgana’s wrongs, to mend the veil she had torn. But Lancelot insisted they double back, that there’s always time for this. And so it was Lancelot’s hand who had shaped the earth, had stacked the stones, had soothed the eyes closed. Lancelot always did what was right, the best of them.

At the memory of his friend, Merlin still feels it, the tightness in his throat.

Now, as they look down at a grassy mound, shaped too perfectly to be of nature, Merlin knows exactly what Arthur sees.

“He’s dead.” Despair hollows Arthur’s eyes. Merlin has never seen him look so weary. “Emrys is dead.”

Mordred’s incredulous. “Emrys? Here?” He glares at Merlin, as though demanding he refute this absurd claim. Merlin’s thoughts race, uncertain which path to take. It’s easy to misdirect Arthur when they’re alone. It’s less easy when there’s someone present who knows the truth. Before he can formulate some half-life, Mordred speaks.

“It’s not him,” he says. He holds Merlin’s gaze, as if daring him to contradict.

Arthur is too far gone to believe. “Years ago, he was already ancient. Could scarcely walk.” 

Arthur drops to his hands and knees over the grave. He unroots a fistful of grass.

Horrified, Mordred asks, “What are you doing?”

“I have to know.” Arthur pulls more grass, baring a spot like a monk’s head. Merlin places a restraining hand on his shoulder, but Arthur shrugs it off. “Don’t,” he says, fingers prying the earth, stiff with cold. “Either help me or keep your hands off.”

They watch, helpless, as Arthur digs, frantic as a hound. He’s getting it under his fingernails and in his hair and in the crevasses of his armor, reaching again and again, tossing handfuls of dark earth to a fresh mound of his own.

It’s not long before Merlin eases to one knee, then the other. He can’t sit back and watch Arthur do this. He might not always agree, but his place is by Arthur’s side, helping however he can. If it’s a skeleton Arthur needs, a skeleton Arthur will get. Arthur says nothing, merely shifts to give Merlin space. Across from them, Mordred also lowers to his haunches but sits watching, resolute and righteous. He refuses to help with something so misguided.

He knows better than to disturb the dead.

They’ve excavated a narrow pit as deep as their elbows, getting dangerously close to fisting something other than earth, when Mordred says, “Stop.”

Something in his tone reaches Arthur, from wherever he’s gone. His head raises, intent on Mordred’s face. Merlin shifts his head, a subtle shake. He warns Mordred with his eyes.

Mordred ignores him, bears on Arthur with fervor. “He’s not dead.”

Arthur sags on his knees, looks up to Mordred as though praying to some higher power. “How do you know?” He almost pleads it, desperate.

Mordred juts his chin. “I don’t.” It’s chilling, how well Mordred lies, better than Merlin himself. “But Morgana would. He’s her mortal enemy. She would know. She would no longer be afraid. She would have come to us, and she would have killed you with a thought.” 

Arthur looks away, the moment lost. Not the answer he’d hoped. Yet at least he’s stopped digging.

“Morgana’s mad.” Arthur rubs a hand across his face, leaving a smudge on his cheek that makes him look unbalanced. “She’s mad and she has my—” He chokes on the word. That nameless fear is too close to the surface of his skin. He trembles with it.

Merlin’s disquiet runs deep. This is not Arthur. Arthur doesn’t lose words. He doesn’t desecrate graves. Arthur never lets fear shiver his skin.

“Let’s make camp,” Merlin says, and places a gentle hand under Arthur’s elbow. This time, Arthur doesn’t shrug him off. Unseeing, he lets Merlin coax him to his feet and away from this forsaken place. 

Mordred stays behind to repair the damage, to soothe what they’d disturbed, ever the druid. He fills in the hole, one fistful at a time, earth crumbling to ash.

* * *

 

“Eat,” Merlin says, dropping a plate of stew into Arthur’s lap. Absently, Arthur grips a fork, but he makes no move to use it.

“We won’t find him,” he says, bleak.

Merlin snaps open a bedroll. “Eat,” is his only response. Arthur likely hasn’t eaten all day, having waved away breakfast, having skipped a midday meal for news of Emrys and then dinner to ride here. He’s pushing himself too hard, and it shows.

“You nag worse than Gwen,” Arthur grumbles, unthinking. It’s a good sign, that his humor returns. But then it registers, what he’s said. “Ah, gods.”

“We’ll get her back.” Merlin tosses him a water skin. “Unless you starve.”

Arthur takes the hint. He takes a long draught from the skin, then shovels the stew woodenly until it’s gone, not tasting a thing. Merlin fluffs a bedroll behind Arthur, then another behind his spot at the fire. He brought only two and doesn’t offer one to Mordred, who approaches at last, his task complete.

Mordred drags over a log and reaches to spoon himself a plate.

The food revives them, the fire mesmerizes them. In its light, the rest of the world goes dark and fuzzy, until all that’s left is their little enclave. Arthur relaxes into it, half-drunk with lack of sleep.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, as Merlin scrapes dregs of stew from his plate.

Had Mordred not been here and Gwen not been elsewhere and the Druids so recently dead, Merlin would have told Arthur exactly what he thought of such thinking. But instead, Merlin stays quiet. He waits, to hear whatever it is that Arthur has been thinking, now that he’s calm and food warms his belly.

“I’ve been thinking,” Arthur says, “about the feast.”

Fire flares in Mordred’s eyes, a keen interest. Merlin feels cold. He draws his coat more tightly about him, bracing for what might come, what Arthur might be thinking.

Surely Arthur won’t do this here, with Mordred present. This is the type of conversation they would have in olden days, before Mordred, before Gwen even. A heart to heart where the roles of king and servant fall away like discarded cloaks and they sit as equals. Merlin a willing pair of ears and a mouth that isn’t afraid to speak.

But Mordred ruins everything. Mordred is a niggling thorn in the paw. A bad taste in the back of the throat. Mordred, whose silence accuses, who with a single look or word could cost Merlin everything.

Mordred flinches, almost as though he can sense it, Merlin’s rising wrath. 

Perhaps he can.

“I’ve been considering it from all angles,” Arthur says, “What Morgana said. What she did. What I might have done differently.”

“And I,” Mordred says, inclining his head, the shame. “Would that I hadn’t arrived so late.”

“We’re fortunate you arrived when you did.”

A log falls in the fire, startling them both. 

Merlin might have had something to do with it. He hates how powerless he was to protect Arthur when it mattered most. Hates that he was caught flat-footed and witless, that Mordred did what he could not.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, drawling the name idly, as only he can. He twirls a fork so its tines catch the firelight. “At the feast. You signaled to speak to me.”

“I did,” Merlin says, reluctant. He’d hoped that, in all the uproar, Arthur would have forgotten, that they wouldn’t have to have this conversation.

“What about?”

Merlin tries to shrug it off. “Nothing important.”

Shadows smudge the geometry of Arthur’s face. Merlin can’t read him, not at all. But his tone prickles Merlin’s flesh, as though they walk a sword’s edge. One wrong word from Merlin and this could cut deep and dangerous. And Mordred just sits there and waits, like a vulture, to swoop in on a moment’s weakness.

Arthur says, “That’s not the impression you gave.”

“It was a feast. I was foolish.”

“Tell me.” His tone brooks no argument.

Merlin sticks to the truth. “I had a feeling.”

At the word, Arthur leans forward, into the light. Merlin can see now, that Arthur brings every bit of his intensity. “You seem to get a lot of those. What kind?”

“I was cold.”

Mordred snorts. Arthur stares at Merlin as though he’s found rat droppings beneath his bed.

“You interrupted my speech because you were cold.”

And now, now is where Merlin bends the truth a bit. Not in his words, but in the way he shapes them. In the way he quirks his lips, shrugs his shoulders. Lest anyone forget, he’s an _idiot_. 

“There was a draft,” Merlin says, purposefully stumbling and bumbling over himself, quick and defensive. “It was probably a door open that wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Yet you indicated it was serious.”

Merlin feels hot all over, and not from the fire. Something burns under his skin. “Like I said, foolish. I was under the influence.”

The fire crackles and pops while Arthur digests this. After too long, he sighs. “We were all foolish.” 

He leans back, letting it go, but only just. He’s not done, not yet. There’s something more he wishes to ask, some thread he’s yet to unravel. His head turns.

“Mordred,” Arthur says, and Merlin’s inquisition is over. He’s grateful, giddy with it even, to have dodged the thrust of this spear that he almost misses it, what Arthur says next. “I would speak to you of the Druids.”

Mordred inclines his head, wary. The trauma is too fresh. Arthur knows this, so he treads careful.

“I am truly sorry, for what’s happened.”

“As am I.”

“I must ask. You grew up among them. Did you ever hear them speak of that…creature?”

Just like that, Arthur rips Merlin’s spine from his body, turns the whole world on its ear. Merlin can’t speak, can’t move, can’t breathe. So this is how it feels, when someone keeps a secret. Arthur has never once hinted that he’s aware of Mordred’s origins, that he connected the young Druid boy with the vagrant who rescued them from the clutches of those slave traders. Merlin had assumed Arthur had forgotten the boy, lost in the sea of names and faces he must navigate daily as King. But of course Arthur would not have forgotten. Arthur is not blind, nor stupid.  

This means so many things. World-altering, destiny-changing things. It means that Arthur must suspect, that Mordred has magic. Not all Druids do, but the odds are good. It means that Arthur suspects and he’s done absolutely nothing. It means that Arthur embraced a potential sorcerer as a knight.

It's the reason Mordred is here, having this conversation, the reason Arthur sends him on impossible missions, the reason Arthur values him, the reason Arthur treasures him. The reason he wants Merlin to as well.

Mordred is _special_.

Merlin lurches to his feet, which feel three sizes too big. Neither of them seems to notice, so locked are they in their private bubble. Gods, it hurts. “I’ll wash up,” he garbles, grabbing their plates and melting deeper into the shadows. He must get away, can’t let them see, the tears.

If Mordred is equally shaken, equally as moved, he doesn’t betray it. He remains neutral, impersonal. “The Eancanah. I’ve only heard stories. They were thought destroyed in the great purge.”

“Could they sense magic?”

“From everything I’ve heard,” Mordred says, “they could.”

Arthur mulls this over for a while. Then he says, “So it’s possible, then, that Priya had magic.”

“It’s possible,” Merlin says, voice tinged with subtle doubt, at the same time that Mordred says, “It’s likely.” It’s an art, this manipulation of Arthur away from the subject of magic. Mordred had sounded too certain for Merlin’s liking. Belatedly, Mordred seems to realize his error. He flits a glance over at Merlin, almost as if to say sorry.

Arthur hums, as though his thoughts are elsewhere. “Gwen never mentioned it. She must not have known. She would have told me.”

Arthur goes quiet for so long, almost drowsing in the heat of the fire, that Merlin hopes he’s dropped it, whatever line of inquiry. Then, out of nowhere, it comes:

“Can Druids do it?” 

For the first time, Mordred is wary. “Do what?”

“Find those with magic.”

Mordred goes blank, the way only he can, his eyes nearly colorless. The question is a shard of glass, deceiving and dangerous.

Arthur senses it, that he’s reached a wall. Yet he’s on the scent of something, his questions driving toward some inevitable conclusion. He has that look on his face, like when he hunts. And even though he looks to Mordred, it’s Merlin who feels like prey. He keeps his head down, washing their plates so clean they gleam.

Arthur continues, “Sorcerers look like you or me.” He waves a careless hand. “Or Merlin. I ask only if the Druids have a way to recognize them.”

As he did earlier at the council, Mordred hesitates. He turns his head away, hiding in shadow. At long last, he speaks, stilted and rough, as though the words pain him. “Sire, I will answer any question you ask. Except that one.”

At this, Arthur stills. He knows that this is an answer.

Arthur says, “I wouldn’t normally ask this of you, of anyone. To betray your kin. To betray the secrets you hold most dear. But for the ones I hold most dear, for Gwen, I must. I must find Emrys.”

There’s something odd about this to Merlin’s ears, something Arthur has inadvertently said. But he can’t pinpoint it and then it slips from his mind for Mordred gathers himself and says something significant.

“For you,” Mordred says, some holy fervor in his face, “I will do anything.”

“Then you must tell me. Do the Druids have some way to identify those with magic?”

Merlin can do nothing but watch. There’s nothing he can say, that would help. A word from him now might rile Arthur further, might tip Mordred over the edge. He’d already wanted to tell Arthur everything. Merlin makes himself small and insignificant and invisible. It isn’t hard.

“Mordred, please. Emrys is the only person who can stop Morgana, who can prevent her from doing anything like this ever again.”

Arthur does what he does best, sizing up his opponent, finding the tender spots, the weaknesses he can exploit. He’s done this automatically since he was a child, trained to kill at birth. 

Somehow, Mordred remains mute in the face of Arthur’s onslaught.

“Don’t let your kin have died in vain.” With that thrust, Arthur’s found it, the knife that slips into the ribs. Mordred’s head snaps up and he glares at Arthur with something akin to malice. But Arthur doesn’t retreat, can’t lose this ground he’s gained. He presses on. “Can the Druids identify those with magic?”

Mordred withers. He looks deep into the fire. “They can.” His voice is small.

Arthur looks euphoric, firelight dancing in his eyes and across his hair, the first good news he’s had in days. He swings back to Merlin, eyes wild. “Did Gaius know?”

Merlin freezes from where he rubs at a plate so hard he’s dulled the patina. Given Arthur’s close scrutiny, it’s better not to lie. “Not that he ever told me.” Although Merlin himself has sensed the use of strong magic, he’s never been able to identify a magic user merely by looking at them.

Arthur is visibly staggered. “If such a method exists, how did my father not know about it?”

Mordred bites, “It was imperative that Uther Pendragon never, ever find out. If he even suspected...” Mordred goes mute with it, the horror.

Arthur says, “I would never—”

“You won’t live forever,” Mordred snaps, forgetting himself, to whom he speaks, the way he never does. Arthur lets it pass, so intent their bubble. “If I tell you, I betray the deepest trust.”

Merlin feels panic well like poison in his veins. Arthur has stumbled onto it here, a secret bigger than Merlin could ever have guessed. It’s bigger than everything. Merlin steps forward, back into the circle of the firelight. 

“Arthur, don’t.” He infuses his voice with every bit of power he has. The voice that makes Arthur listen. “These are the types of secrets people die for.”

But even this is not enough. Arthur ignores him, so focused is he on Mordred, a hound with a bone. Yet again, it hurts.

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s enough to know, that there is a way.” Arthur holds out an arm, and Mordred grips it, fierce. “You are my most loyal knight. I’m blessed to have you by my side.”

They face each other, arms joined, yet all Merlin can see is a similar vision of them standing before each other, joined by a sword. This is the first hint of it, a death sentence, as though the two of them have struck some devil’s bargain.

“So.” Arthur leans back against his log, one leg splayed toward the fire, the other drawn up to his chest, a picture of incongruous ease. Merlin is so distracted by the tornado that whirls his thoughts he almost misses it, the moment Arthur has built to, his ultimate goal, one final yank and it all comes undone. 

Arthur says, “We know there is a sorcerer in Camelot.” The full force of his gaze pins Merlin, and this is it.

“And we know they were standing near you, Merlin.”


	6. Chapter 6

Servants queue in the hall outside Arthur’s chambers. Four of them stand crisply, hands clasped behind their backs. They’re somber as an execution despite Merlin’s reassuring smile when he’d pulled each aside and said, “The King wants a word.” Three are serving folk from the kitchens: Clarissa, Tom, and Lynette. The fourth—as unwanted but inevitable as a cock’s crow at sunrise—is George. Perfect, devoted George, who tends to plant himself near Merlin in social functions, angling to remain in the King’s sight.

George had trained since birth to be a manservant for Arthur when he came of age. While Arthur had learned fifty ways to skewer men with swords, George learned fifty ways to extract bloodstains from cloth. Arthur learned French, and George learned French stitching. Arthur politics, George polishing. And then King Uther (gods rest his soul) swooped in and gave Arthur a manservant early and... it was not George. It was Merlin, a boy from a backwards town in the middle of nowhere, one that wasn’t even ruled by Camelot. Merlin, who knew nothing about anything and didn’t even appreciate the honor bestowed.

So of course it was George who had stood near Merlin at the feast, who had been one of the first to step forward when Merlin became weak. George never misses an opportunity to remind everyone what a real manservant is like. (He’d be devastated to hear that Arthur hadn’t been able to recall which two servants had helped prop Merlin up.)

Now George stands, impeccable and directly above Merlin, the fifth servant in the row. Merlin sprawls against the wall on a low footstool he’d nicked from Arthur’s rooms. Other stools and a forlorn chair crowd around him like ducklings, all rebuffed by George and subsequently the others when Merlin had offered. No self-respecting servant would sit to await an audience with the King. Yet this does not stop Merlin from resting legs grown weary from the saddle. 

Every so often, Merlin shifts in his seat, muscles still tender. 

George doesn’t so much as blink.

Across from him, Sirs Leon and Gwaine flank Arthur’s door. Leon is as stoic as the servants. Gwaine is not. He's antsy, a few moments from bellowing about what in the blazes they’re all doing here. Every so often, he tweaks a curious eyebrow at Merlin, who shrugs it off, betraying nothing. Yet he can’t hide his unease at the eternity of silence beyond the door as each servant lingers in Arthur’s chambers. He hears little, a low murmur of voices. He feels nothing, no murmur of magic.

The door opens.

Gwaine’s expression wipes neutral, as though he hadn’t been doing an impression of someone with a broom up the arse. Merlin turns his head and stuffs down a smile. Arthur discharges a serving girl with a distant smile of his own and a kind word, the consummate King. Merlin searches her for signs of distress, but she appears unharmed and underwhelmed, as though the purpose of her visit remains foggy. As she hastens away, back to the kitchens, Arthur meets Merlin’s eyes. He shakes his head, once.

“Lynette,” Arthur says, and she steps forward, blushing that the King knows her name. The door closes behind them with a ponderous finality.

Again, they wait. And wait some more as the process repeats twice, then thrice.

When George disappears behind the door at last, Gwaine abandons all pretense of playing soldiers and joins Merlin against the opposite wall, lowering onto a footstool that’s too small for him, so close their shoulders brush.

Merlin’s grateful for it, the solidarity.

“So,” Gwaine says. He props his feet on the errant chair and froofs his cape over his legs as though it’s a skirt. “George seems to think this is an audition.”

“His life is an audition.”

“True. I once saw a fly land on his eyeball.” When Merlin gives him no more than a weak smile, Gwaine sobers. “So Arthur’s finally decided to give you the boot?”

Merlin downplays. “He merely has some questions.”

At this, Gwaine glitters. “An inquisition.”

Merlin shrugs as though it’s not his business, but Gwaine reads him better than most, and Merlin always knows more than he says. Gwaine’s about to try a new tack, perhaps one that involves the sensitive flesh between Merlin’s ribs, when Percy and Elyan round the corner.

Gwaine perks. “You’re late, knaves.” He kicks out and skitters a stool into Percy’s path.

Percy doesn’t break stride to step over it. He takes them all in. “We didn’t know Arthur convened a council.”

“He didn’t,” Leon assures.

The council has convened itself, some unspoken understanding that they would all come to Arthur on this night, his most trusted knights.

The door opens, and George’s voice filters out.

“…if I could have but a moment, I see that your candles are not yet lit, your drapes could use the iron, your walls need polishing, and there’s a smidge of—”

“That will be all, George,” Arthur says, hasty, a too-bright smile, and shoos a reluctant George back into the hall. Unlike the servants before him, George remains a picture of aplomb, his practiced veneer betraying no hint of emotions beneath. 

“My liege,” he says, and bows out. Literally, as he walks the corridor backward, interspersing a step with a bow toward the King.

Arthur shows his teeth until George backs around the corner. Then his smile goes genuine at the sight of the knights gathered. He throws his door open wide and beckons them into his chambers, even Merlin, who gathers up the stools. Gwaine winks and helpfully snags the chair.

The knights join Mordred, who sits at an edge of the otherwise empty dining table. His walls are up tight, no hints on his face. Merlin prowls the room under the pretense of returning stools and lighting candles (late). But really he’s looking for something, anything. Yet nothing is out of place, nothing overturned, everything exactly as it was. And the drapes look fine, thank you very much, if only Arthur would stop yanking them around… 

When he’s satisfied there’s nothing to be found, Merlin stops under the arch that bisects the chambers. He gazes over the Queen’s empty chair to Arthur, who leans with a hand on his own chair at the head of the table near the hearth, backlit by flame.

Before they can launch in to council, there’s a clang at the door, as though it’s impacted by a meaty fist. Arthur and Merlin frown at each other, for they know nearly everyone by their knock and most everyone who would knock is on this side of the door. 

Merlin steps out into the hall to find a sour-faced Cook herself, bearing Arthur’s evening meal. “You didn’t come looking for it,” she accuses.

“Sorry, I lost track of time.”

“We was worried, so I thought I’d—” She thrusts two trays at him and lets her food do the talking. They’re heaped with delicacies, all of Arthur’s favorites, as though to make up for yesterday. “He’ll need his strength.”

Merlin nearly staggers under the weight. “He’ll need a seamstress.”

Cook eyes Merlin’s slight frame in disapproval, as though it might buckle under her wares. But she bites her tongue about someone else who could use some spoiling and is off without another word to the safety and familiarity of her ovens.

Inside, Merlin drops the offering before a wide-eyed Arthur. “Cook thinks you’re weak. Eat up.”

“I can’t eat all this.”

“Good thing you’ve got knights,” Gwaine says. “Are those strawberries?” He pops one in his mouth.

“Please,” Arthur says. He pushes the trays to the center of the table. “This is enough for an army.”

The knights dive in with gusto. Merlin makes himself useful, grabbing extra goblets from the sideboard and hefting an ornate carafe of what looks and smells like wine. He’s not sure how it got here, but it’s still relatively cool to the touch.

Arthur follows, crowding close. “You too, Merlin,” he says and deftly swipes the jug. 

“That’s wine,” Merlin accuses.

“It’s watered,” Arthur counters, smug. With a hand to Merlin’s back, Arthur directs him toward the empty seat next to Gwaine. And across from Mordred.

Then Arthur leans in and tips the jug. 

Merlin stares and squirms, for Arthur has never served him like this. The sight is rare and uncomfortable and wonderful, like finding a unicorn in a forest. It’s also strangely...pleasing.

After Arthur fills goblets round the table, he settles into his own chair. 

“Report,” he says.

As they eat, Leon breaks the bad news. The knights interviewed everyone who was reputed to have magic—shopkeepers and pig herders and neighbors and mothers-in-law. A few knights are still unaccounted for, on a unicorn quest to find some hermit out in the nearby woods or mountains. None of said hermits matches the description of Emrys.

Every lead has run dry. 

Arthur listens, grave, until Leon falls silent at last, report exhausted. 

“Our own avenues have proven equally unfruitful,” Arthur says. “Mordred?”

For a jarring moment, Merlin thinks that Arthur asks Mordred to recount the results of the secret test. He can’t believe Arthur would risk sharing such a secret, even with his inner circle. And indeed, Arthur wouldn’t. Instead, Mordred launches into a watered-down version of what he’d found at the Druid camp. This time Merlin hears not a whisper from his mind, yet he cannot help but remember them, images that flicker behind his eyes like flame.

At Mordred’s tale, the knights grow solemn. They can scarcely believe it, what Morgana has done, she who had so vociferously condemned Uther for similar transgressions. The fruit hasn’t fallen far from its tree.

Arthur says it, what they’re all thinking: “That’s it, then. Emrys eludes us. He won’t—or can’t—come.”

“Perhaps he’ll meet us there,” Gwaine says. At that, Mordred’s eyes dart to Merlin, who remains a stone, refuses to acknowledge either the idea or Mordred’s interest in it.

“We can’t rely on him,” Arthur says. “So I must proceed as though he’s not coming.” Merlin doesn’t miss it, the way Arthur refers to himself, singular. “I’ve tarried too long with Gwen left at what passes for Morgana’s mercy. Tomorrow, I ride for the Dark Tower. It’s unlikely I’ll return. As such, I can’t ask you to—”

Gwaine’s chair scrapes, and he’s on his feet. “You don’t have to ask.”

Other chairs follow, the knights rising, faithful as the dawn. 

“It’s not a question,” Leon says.

“She’s my sister,” Elyan says.

Mordred bares a wolf’s smile.

Percy flexes.

Arthur holds up a hand, smile small and shadowed. He gathers himself for what he must do. “My friends,” he says, gentle. “I thank you. You are brave and loyal, sometimes to a fault. We’ve fought shoulder-to-shoulder, and there’s no one I’d rather have by my side in almost any battle. Yet this will be no battle. It’s a massacre. Morgana has shown us what she’s capable of. I can’t allow you to die with me.”

“As your friends,” Gwaine says, “we aren’t about to let you have all the fun.”

“If Morgana kills you,” Leon says, “she will kill us all.”

The knights press on, offering a flurry of reasons why Arthur needs them by his side. Arthur listens, but Merlin can see it in his face, he will not be swayed. One by one, he parries their reasons with better ones of his own: They must not all perish. Someone must remain to defend Camelot. Someone must remain to become King.

Arthur is as resolute as Merlin has seen him. Short of mutiny, he will brave the Dark Tower alone, the kind of alone that doesn’t include Merlin. Arthur has gone to his own lonely tower in his mind, barricading himself against his friends in another noble yet misguided attempt to keep them safe.

There’s only one thing that might reach him.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, a low rasp. Yet somehow his voice cuts through the rabble and everyone quiets, even Gwaine. They look over to hear, what Merlin might say. And what he says is this: 

“Gwen will need a physician.” He says this as an ironclad truth, for there’s no option but to believe that Gwen will survive. But she will not likely survive unharmed.

Arthur, who up until this point had evaded Merlin’s heavy gaze, now pins him with a glare. Emotions flit across his face. Guilt, for he’s thought of Gwen already. Anger, that Merlin would dare countermand him before his men. And gratitude, that Merlin had spoken what Arthur could not.

Merlin adds, the clincher, “And we know I’m rubbish at defending myself on quests. I’ll need a guard.”

Gwaine grins like a loon. “I volunteer. Merlin likes me best.”

Arthur holds up a hand again, before the discourse can devolve. He regards them in mock disgust, which doesn’t quite mask an undercurrent of pride. “Alright,” he says like a sigh. “I’ll allow you—all of you—to escort me and my,” Arthur waves a generous hand toward Merlin, “physician to the foot of the Tower. But there you will remain. You will guard my flank and my incompetent manservant.”

The knights grin at each other and especially Merlin.

“I’ll drink to that,” Gwaine says, and he does.

Arthur regards them a moment longer. “We should all drink to that,” he says. He raises his wine. Around the table, the knights follow his lead. Everyone but Merlin, who eyes the high level of wine in his goblet. He’d done little more than sip at it, his stomach still unsettled by what had happened the last time there’d been wine. 

Arthur notes Merlin’s reluctance. “This,” he says, waggling his cup in Merlin’s nose, “means a toast.”

With a queasy smile, Merlin hefts his goblet and waggles it back, half-hearted. Yet Arthur seems satisfied, a nod.

“To dying alongside friends,” Arthur says.

“And incompetent manservants,” Gwaine adds.

Laughter bubbles, and everyone drinks deep, Merlin included, for he wouldn’t want to be the cause of any further misfortune. 

“Now,” Arthur says. He plunks his goblet with a flourish and reaches to retrieve a roll of parchment against the hearth. “Tell me what you know of the Dark Tower.”

Merlin has almost replaced his own cup when he notices them—a few flecks at the bottom. They look like herbs. Which wouldn’t be unusual if this were mead. But wine doesn’t contain herbs.

Merlin feels overwarm, cheeks hot, though he can’t be sure if it’s from the wine or the bodies crowded amiably around the fire. Then Arthur’s eyes flick to Merlin. Just for a moment, but it’s long enough. Long enough for Merlin to understand. 

Arthur had poured his wine.

Wine laced with herbs.

Across the table, there’s a subtle shift, like a cloud drifting across the moon. Hair raises on Merlin’s sensitive flesh, the air charged with it, that moment before lightning strikes. Mordred, whose gaze had previously slid over Merlin’s chair as though it were empty, he’s looking now, mouth a subtle pinch.

Whatever Mordred has been doing in this room, he’s doing it again.

Merlin goes blank and boneless. In his periphery, Mordred’s eyes are twin moons, overlarge and unyielding, crowding out the night sky until there’s nothing else. Yet Merlin fights their gravity, refusing to give in to the temptation to face his opponent, to fight magic with magic. Instead, he’s studious and serious, studying the maps Arthur has splayed before them on the table. The Dark Tower juts in the northeast corner. From somewhere far away, Arthur rattles on about which route they should take, as apparently there are three. 

“What about this?” Merlin taps a finger on a wooded area that seems to surround the Dark Tower like a moat. Amazingly, his voice stays light. It stays calm. No sign of the strain.

Arthur stares at him a second too long, then looks back down at the map. “That’s the Impenetrable Forest.”

This buys Merlin time, as the knights begin to discuss the finer points of penetrating an Impenetrable Forest. He has but moments until the herbs do what they will.

After the incident with Nimueh and her poisoned goblet, Gaius started to dose him with small traces of poison, to train Merlin to detect foreign particles in his system. As manservant to a King, particularly one with such a target on his back as Arthur, this would be a handy skill to have. 

So Merlin has drunk trace amounts of all sorts of herbs and poisons, seeking to counteract their effects. He wasn’t always successful, which is when Gaius would step in. Sometimes, even the antidote left him miserable and sick for days, after which Arthur would invariably tease him about the tavern. Before Gaius had passed, Merlin had worked up to hemlock itself, although the resulting tremors lingered for weeks. 

Now, Merlin is out of practice, no one left to administer an antidote. But these trials are why Merlin is able to look inward, trying to pinpoint the herbs that have been used, the taste of them on his tongue, nearly drowned out by the wine. It’s never easy to work magic inside himself, much less with particles no bigger than grains of sand.

 _Horsemint_ , he thinks, wild. _Valerian_. _And a trace of snapdragon_ , though he’s not sure about the last one. Harmless herbs, all of them, and readily available in and around the castle. But perhaps when mixed…

Doubt churns. Merlin’s thoughts race in circles, tangling and tripping. Primal instinct tells him to do it, to send his magic splashing and crashing through his belly and up his throat, winking out the invading particles like fireflies. But this is no ordinary scenario. Mordred doesn’t seek to execute him. He seeks to expose him. So perhaps it’s what Mordred wants, for Merlin to react with magic. It’s a coin toss, impossible to guess whether the herbs will activate dormant magic, triggering some involuntary—and visible—reaction. Or whether they activate only when they come into contact with active magic, like herbs that fizzle only in water.

If he tries to save himself, Merlin might doom himself.

All these things he thinks and more, in seconds that stretch as eternity. Although he works no magic, time slows. He keeps his eyes down, tracing the maps before him as though they hold the key to his dilemma, until their lines blur and swim. Around him, people speak, but the words dart above his head, just out of reach. A bead of sweat inches down his neck, slow as a stalactite.

Merlin’s a toad in a cauldron of water, someone gradually adds more wood to the fire. He hunkers, oblivious and ignorant, doesn’t know enough to save himself. On the outside, he’s perfectly calm, perfectly still. On the inside, he boils.

He waits, an eternity of misery, everything too close and too loud and too much. Mordred’s stare scalds, Arthur glances like daggers. Eyes, eyes, everywhere, and not a drop to—

Fingers flutter in Merlin’s face.

Mordred blinks and his eyes drop away. Time snaps back, sound comes into focus, someone whispers in Merlin’s ear. It’s Gwaine. He seems to be asking if Merlin’s alright, seems to think Merlin has gone full-on George, wouldn’t want a fly to land on his eyeball.

Merlin cracks a weak smile. “Jus’ tired.” It’s no more than a garbled mumble yet Gwaine hears and so does Arthur.

“It’s late,” the King agrees, for the evening has wound down at last, food and logistics thoroughly chewed and digested. The knights rise, and Merlin lurches with them, careful to brace himself on his chair. As the others take their leave and file out, Merlin hangs back until he’s sure his watery legs won’t betray him. An excuse, he collects the goblets and lines them on an empty tray. Mordred is the last to leave, sharing a guarded look with Arthur before he, too, slips from the room.

Then it’s just the two of them.

“If there’s nothing else, Sire,” Merlin says, his best impression of George. They stand four paces away. Yet between them lies the Impenetrable Forest.

Arthur can’t quite meet Merlin’s eyes. 

He knows, that Merlin knows.

When Arthur speaks, he’s weary, the weight of the world. “It jumped straight toward you. Everyone saw. I couldn’t just...”

He makes a vague gesture that Merlin can’t quite interpret. It could mean anything from _begone_ to _I’m frustrated_ or even _off with his head_. But Arthur likely means that he couldn’t just ignore it, couldn’t turn a blind eye. This could imply that there are other things, that Arthur has ignored.

“Of course, Sire.” Still serious but softer this time, the honorific no longer a slur, for Merlin understands. It’s laughable, that he should be angry with Arthur for keeping things from him. 

Arthur regards him for a long moment, as though considering the myriad of unsaid words that divide them as effectively as an iron grate. If this were any other evening, they might work through this until the fire burns low and their eyelids droop lower still. But this is no ordinary night, and tomorrow is no ordinary day.

“Sleep,” is all he says. “Tomorrow comes too soon.” Like Merlin, he’s stiff and distant. Merlin’s never seen him like this. It’s guilt, yes, that he didn’t trust. But it’s also something else.

Only after Merlin has escaped from the room can he place it, that something in Arthur’s eyes, some hunger, denied.

Arthur’s disappointed.


	7. Chapter 7

Though Merlin’s chambers are _that_ way, he goes _this_ way, lured by the jangle and jostle of the knights, off to snatch what sleep they can before the morrow. Though they would welcome him into the fold, he trails at a distance, where a chance glance won’t betray his presence.

At the juncture to the barracks, the knights clump and exchange low words: confirming plans for the morning, wrapping up a few finer details that needn’t concern the King. Merlin hovers in the crevice of a nearby hallway, where the candlelight doesn’t quite reach. He waits until the knights part ways, each to his own room.

Despite the hour, Merlin has no thought of sleep.

His only thought is of Mordred.

Mordred, who is a silhouette in the doorway at the end of the hall, shadows flickering and fracturing in his face. He doesn’t look Merlin’s way, gives no sign that he spies Merlin lurking. Yet the youngest knight hangs back, citing that there’s something he must do, he’ll catch up. When his brethren go left, Mordred goes right, away from the warmth of his bed.

Merlin follows, silent as a shade even without his magic—or perhaps because of it. A secret like his, one learns to tread softly. Yet he’s sure Mordred can sense him, in that way that he does. He’s sure Mordred knows what he intends.

There will be words.

Mordred leads them to the north wing of the castle, deserted at this time of night. He ducks through a familiar doorway and disappears up steep steps that twine about a turret. Merlin follows, pausing in the stairwell to bar the door behind them.

Then up and up they go, until they emerge from the shelter of the north watch tower, the one Merlin thinks of as his. A chill breeze prickles at their edges, worrying cloth and hair, searching for any weakness to wrench or rend.

Halfway down the catwalk, Mordred stops. He pivots slow and wary, showing both palms. His expression pleads.

“I can explai—”

Merlin flicks a finger.

Wind snatches Mordred off his feet. He lands half off a battlement, back arching, arms dangling, fingers scrabbling. Merlin greases the stone and the fingers slip, finding only air. He steps close, the better to see the knight’s face. The better to see the fear, the way Mordred has made him feel. His magic flares white-hot, tingeing everything the color of blood, an ocean in his ears.

It dares those herbs to do their worst.

“You won’t,” Mordred says, a grimace of a smile. Impossibly, he’s not afraid.

Merlin makes a deep, strangled noise because he wants to. Through the years, he’s had countless chances to remove Mordred as a threat. Not by doing _something_ , mind you, but by doing _nothing_. From the moment they met, when Mordred was nothing but a scrawny boy with eyes too wise for his years, Merlin could have looked away.

Since then, Merlin hasn’t made the same mistake. Now when Mordred’s life is on the line, he looks away, he does not hear. All it takes is a word in Arthur’s ear, a blind eye there. Yet no matter what Merlin does, how much Merlin pushes him away, Mordred always finds his way back to Arthur, elated and breathless, bubbling over with a tale of another harrowing escape.

Perhaps, Merlin thinks, he’s been too subtle. He’s left too much to the hands of fate. And now Mordred is in _his_ hands. This is the closest Merlin has come, here on a lonely tower that stands far above the rest of the world, so close he can see the whites of Mordred’s eyes.

All he has to do is let go. 

Gravity will do the rest.

Mordred must see it reflected, his future in Merlin’s eyes, for he writhes and kicks and he might even use magic, but he spits into a hurricane. Merlin doesn’t blink and for the first time he understands exactly how George does it, how you can be so focused on something that nothing will come between you and what you want, not something as ephemeral as eyelashes.

When Mordred’s strength fails, fists bruised against air, he goes limp and pale, and tries to use his words. But Merlin doesn’t want to hear, not in his mind or anywhere else, and so he tightens a fist at his side, and Mordred chokes on it, keening deep in his chest. His throat won’t _work_.

There will be no words.

But Mordred’s throat works and works, and his tongue and his lips, until eventually they creak out a single word: “Arthur.”

The name, it’s like a prayer.

Merlin blinks.

It’s the only thing Mordred could have said, that would have mattered. Mordred likely doesn’t even know what he’s done, what thoughts he’s conjured with a single name. An image of Arthur, standing bare-headed under a halo of moonlight, shocked and sickened at the sight before him, how he could have had Merlin so very wrong.

If Merlin harms Mordred, Arthur will turn from him—from Emrys—forever, another death that Arthur can never forgive. And there are already so, so many of them, bodies that pile around Merlin like wood on a pyre. One day, he will burn. 

At the thought—the look in Arthur’s eyes—Merlin’s magic shrivels from him, anger receding like sand from an hourglass, leaving him hollow and brittle. He steps back and releases Mordred. The knight slumps, huddled with his back against stone. He’s not the only who who breathes heavy, desperate. He’s not the only one who shivers.

But it’s not over.

It’s nowhere near over.

Merlin looms. “You,” he says, stabbing with a finger, “tested me for magic.”

Mordred comes up swinging, slapping Merlin’s hand away. He lost an initial skirmish but not the war, the one that brews endlessly between them.

“It was Arthur’s idea.”

Again, that name. Again, the sting. The two of them conspired. Merlin tells himself that Arthur had no choice, that he would do anything to find Gwen. But he knows it’s not only that. It goes deeper, a curiosity that sparked the moment they met, _there’s something about you_. Merlin glimpses it in Arthur’s expression on the rare occasions when Merlin does or says something just shy of normal. As in the other night around the campfire, when he’d told Arthur he had a _feeling_. 

Perhaps this opportunity was too golden, even for Arthur.

“Yet you were happy to oblige,” Merlin grinds out at last. “After all, it’s what you want. For him to know.”

“What does it matter?” Mordred snaps, sullen. “It didn’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

Mordred cocks his head. “You did something.”

“I did nothing.”

“Then it should have hurt. I shouted with all my might.”

Merlin’s not sure what he’s saying, what he’s even saying. “But the herbs—”

Mordred jerks his chin, impatient. “The herbs were a feint. The real test was in here.” He taps his temple.

Ah. The herbs were for Arthur’s benefit, so he would not divine the true nature of the test. For if he knew what Mordred was really doing—shouting into the depths of someone’s mind—he would know that Mordred had magic. 

“I didn’t hear you.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Apparently it is. I blocked you.”

“There was no time—”

“Not now. Earlier. By the stream. When you were…” Merlin flutters his fingers at his own temple. When Mordred was telling them about the Druids, Merlin had thrown up a wall between them, more permanent than he’d known.

Mordred’s eyes go wide, so like the lost child he’d been when they met. “You shut me out.”

Merlin has no time for this, another illusion he’s failed to live up to. “The point is, you didn’t know I had blocked you. You wanted me to fail.”

Mordred’s face goes hard. “What I want,” he snaps, “is for Morgana to die. You’ve seen what she’s done. She must be stopped.” His eyes could kill. “I want you to _do_ something.”

Merlin turns away then, leans against stone that feels like ice. “I am.”

Mordred scoffs. “You’re hiding. Like you always have.”

“We must let this run its course. I told you—I won’t let Morgana goad me.” 

Merlin can feel it, the heat of Mordred’s stare.

“All my life,” Mordred says, low. “I’ve heard stories of Emrys. Who he is, what he will do. I’ve dreamt of him. I wanted to be him. Now I find he’s nothing but a coward.”

Cracks spread in the stone beneath Merlin’s palm. He whirls, nostrils flaring. “I protect Arthur with my life. When he faces Morgana, I’ll be there, by his side, as I always am.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be.”

Merlin stiffens. “Sounds like a threat.”

“It’s an idea. You heard Gwaine. Beg off the trip, make some excuse, you’re good at those. Send Emrys in your place.”

Merlin has already considered it, appearing to Arthur again as Emrys. But there would be no way to keep up the charade on the journey, no way to appear simultaneously as both Merlin and Emrys. Besides, Emrys is ancient, feeble. He can barely ride a horse. Merlin doesn’t think he’ll survive another encounter with Morgana. For that matter, he’s not sure _Merlin_ will.

Merlin shakes his head. “I’m stronger as Merlin.”

“Emrys is the greatest sorcerer to walk the earth.”

“Merlin is the name by which my friends know me. They’re the reason I’m strong. Now is not the time for a charade. Now is not the time for their fear and mistrust. It turns my stomach, the way they look at Emrys. It divides my focus, makes me doubt myself. If I’m to face Morgana, I’ll face her as myself.”

Mordred stares. All hope drains from his pale face. For the first time, he looks uncertain, afraid. “That’s it? You’ll bring Arthur straight to Morgana and hope it all works out? You said you’d have a plan.”

“I know what I’m doing.” Merlin clings to the fact that they’ve faced Morgana before, time after time. Somehow, they come through unscathed, Merlin’s secret safe. This will be no different. In the chaos, Merlin will find a way to triumph, unseen, unsung. It’s the way it’s always been and the way it must always be.

Merlin is an excellent liar. 

And Mordred knows it. 

The Mordred of a few days ago would have let this go, would have cowered in the face of Merlin’s surety, feigned or no. But the Mordred who stands before him now has seen his people slaughtered. And it’s as though he was burned with them, stripped down to his bare essence, all his fear and doubt evaporated in flame. He’s no longer afraid, of what Merlin might do.

He’s learned—life is too short for fear.

“You have no inkling of what you’re doing,” Mordred says.

Mocking, Merlin says, “Yet I’m the great Emrys.”

Mordred ignores him. “I’ve asked myself for years, why you hesitate. And now I finally understand. You’re afraid.” He says this with wide-eyed awe, a revelation. 

Merlin feels it then, a thrill and chill down his spine. It’s not fear. It _is_ _not_.

And then Mordred says more things, like: “You’re afraid of Morgana. That she’s become too powerful, more powerful than you. That she’ll kill you. And if she kills you, then she’ll kill Arthur.”

and

“You’re afraid of me, for some reason I can’t begin to fathom. You watch me, so very closely. And the thing is, I watch you, too. I see how you tense when I come in the room. How you angle yourself between us, me and Arthur.”

and

“You’re afraid that all of Albion will hear of you, as they’ve heard of Emrys. When people find out that Emrys is you, you’ll be drawn into the light. You’ll be vulnerable. A target, like Arthur.”

And Merlin can only think:

This isn’t right.

It can’t be.

“Being Merlin is easy,” Mordred says. “Playing the fool. No one expects anything of you, not really. They don’t even expect you to hold a sword.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s Merlin whose back is against stone now, who feels perilously close to falling. And Mordred senses it, the little snot, he has him.

“I think I do. People would look to you for the first time, so many eyes, the way they look to Arthur. Your easy, sheltered life will be over. You’ll be invisible no more.” Mordred’s lips curl, something cruel. “I think you like it, being the power behind the throne.”

Merlin’s nearly speechless with it, how Mordred can have it so very wrong. “Arthur is no puppet.”

Mordred’s neck twists, a thought occurs. “You remain silent until I mention Arthur. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s him. It’s always him. You’re more afraid of him than anyone. How he’ll look at you, after.”

Oh Mordred, who fancies himself so _deep_ , so _wise_. Thinks he can pierce with those uncanny eyes straight into the secret places in Merlin’s soul. But Mordred might as well be milk-white blind. There is a secret, yes, but it’s not one that Mordred could ever guess. 

It’s a secret Merlin refuses to acknowledge, refuses to even think. Even now, his thoughts go slip-sliding over it, nothing to grasp. For in thinking of it, he gives it a name. He gives it power. Merlin knows it’s there only because of how it weighs, heavy. How he sometimes stumbles over it in quiet moments with Arthur, how it grates at him like a pebble in his boot. It aches somewhere deep in his chest and he tells himself that this is what happiness feels like.

Except.

He knows it’s not that.

And so he tucks it in and tamps it back down and buries it where it belongs: deep, deeper, deepest. Yet it’s why Merlin can now say, with absolute surety, “You’re wrong.”

Mordred wilts a smile. “Perhaps. I can’t read your mind. You’ve shut me out. But I can sense your fear. You’re afraid things will change. Which is beyond ironic, because you’re Emrys. The one who will change everything.”

Mordred has never spoken to Merlin like this before, with such fanatic fervor. He believes in Emrys with all of his being. He’s been holding back.

“Don’t you see?” Mordred says. “Things are supposed to change. You’re the one who will make them change. Arthur will absolutely look at you differently. He’ll see the real you for the first time. With time, he will accept you. He must.”

“Don’t presume to know what the King might do.”

“I don’t have to presume. We’ve _seen_ it.” Mordred’s voice fills with reverent wonder. “Merlin, he knows. About my magic. He must.”

Once, Merlin had thought that Mordred was everything he could have been. Now Mordred is his mirror. In Arthur’s reaction to Mordred’s magic, or lack thereof, he can see a hint of how it could be—for him.

But Merlin just shakes his head. Shakes and shakes. He and Mordred, they’re not the same. Arthur suspected about Mordred from the beginning. They don’t have history.

“No,” Merlin says.

“But—”

“No,” Merlin roars.

He doesn’t know anymore, what he denies. 

He denies all of it.

Mordred draws back, at the vehemence. He’s just spilled his guts to Merlin, his hopes, his fears, everything he is, and Merlin has trampled on him. Yet again, Merlin has shut every door, window, and grate in his face. There’s nothing soft, no opening whatsoever.

“All this time,” Mordred says, so very quiet, “I’ve believed in Emrys. I never stopped believing, not once. Not even after he shunned me and disavowed me and threatened my already tenuous place in Camelot. And I still believe. I believe in a man who’s destined to bring magic back to the land.”

Mordred surveys him, unreadable once more. And then he says it, with the finality of death: 

“I no longer think you’re him.” 

With that, Mordred pushes past, colliding with Merlin’s shoulder so hard it staggers. He strides away, cape billowing blood-red in the moon.

And this is what Merlin thinks: _Perhaps I’m not_.

“Mordred,” Merlin calls, the name like a burning coal on his tongue, hot and desperate. Mordred’s feet still only because Merlin has used it, his name. Yet he doesn’t deign to turn back, merely cants an ear. “What will you do?”

Mordred smiles.

A blatant, dangerous curl of the lip.

Then he’s gone, swallowed up by the turret’s throat, and Merlin’s the one to stand, battered and bloodied, at the tip top of a forsaken tower. 


	8. Chapter 8

There are many things Merlin should do. 

He should chase after Mordred, wrench at his shoulder, and demand to know. He should tell Mordred that he’s right, they should ride out tonight and face Morgana alone. He should render Mordred unconscious and lock him in the cavern under the castle. He should hurry back to Arthur’s side and barricade himself in Arthur’s rooms so that he can be there, should Mordred come. He should be there to deny, what Mordred might say. Or he should tell Arthur himself, before Mordred can. Three little words, that’s all it would take.

 _I have magic_.

These things and more are things that Merlin should do.

And yet Merlin does none of these things. He merely stands at the top of his tower, lifts his face to the moon, and breathes in the night. He should be jittery and angry and afraid and worried and sick. Yet the fear of which Mordred has accused him, the fear that has for so long dogged his steps and lowered his eyes and stayed his tongue, this fear is gone, as though Mordred has taken it with him. In its place, Merlin is suffused with something warm and foreign. 

Peace.

For it’s out of his hands, what Mordred might do. 

By morning, Arthur will either know.

Or he won’t.

It’s peace that allows Merlin to breathe, allows something to flourish within him for the first time. In the fertile soil of his imagination, formerly choked with the weeds of fear, an idea begins to unfurl. Merlin’s fingers prickle and tingle, as though some circulation returns, though none has been denied. His magic does this sometimes, nudges at him the way a hound nudges its master’s knee. It senses its master’s mood, expands to fill some need. And so Merlin indulges it, cupping his palms and letting his magic flood his fingers with warmth.

When he opens his hands, outstretched like some offering, Merlin is briefly disappointed by the unassuming shape that nestles in his palm. It looks to be a simple moth, rough and brown like bark, too frail to be of any use. Gently, he blows, and the delicate wings shiver, the gossamer antenna quiver. He’s about to close his palms, to extinguish this simulacrum of life like a candle’s wick, when the creature flutters, revealing a glimmer of what lies beneath.

Then Merlin is no longer disappointed. He’s dazzled. The insect takes flight and catches on his fingertip. Merlin inspects it from all sides, marveling at how, when you see it from the right angle, it transforms into an entirely new creature. For beneath the crude exterior gleams a sheen of blue, iridescent in the light of the moon.

It’s not a moth at all.

Merlin and this butterfly are much alike. To stay safe, they must hide their true selves.

With a grin, Merlin sets the butterfly free. It flits aimlessly for a moment, buffeted hither and thither by the breeze. And then it seems to catch it, some scent. Merlin leans over the battlement and follows its flight as it descends from the north tower, then past the fringes of Camelot and beyond, until it disappears into the canopy of trees. It’s gone but not lost, for Merlin casts his awareness now, tethering his senses to those of the butterfly, for it’s a part of him.

When it reaches the lush shadows of the forest floor, the insect alights on a blade of grass. Its wings fold up so that its delicate underbelly is visible for metres in all directions. Thanks to the butterfly’s unique senses, Merlin is acutely aware of the beauty of the forest around him, refracted into a myriad of images, like facets on a jewel,overlaid with more colors than the human eye can see. Every so often, his wings wink open and closed, sending shockwaves through the air that Merlin can _hear_. And he can _taste_ the clean, fresh grass beneath his pinprick feet. It’s been too long since he’s felt the forest like this, the immortal trees, leaves as innumerable as the stars, insects and animals the lifeblood that ties it all together. And he but a small part of something bigger, so attuned that he _vibrates_.

Merlin is so overwhelmed by the input that he misses the shadow that falls, swift and silent.

One moment, he preens on his perch. The next, there’s a flurry of feathers, sharp pinpricks, and he’s blurred away to a higher perch on the branch of a nearby tree. When his brain catches up, he finds himself in the clutches of a tawny owl, plump and solemn, with eyes that gleam like lanterns. The bird proceeds to tuck into the butterfly like it’s a midnight snack. Claws rip off each of the wings, letting them flutter to the forest floor, forgotten. There’s no pain, for there was no life. There’s only a sense of loss, of beauty snuffed out too soon. Then the beak yaws dark, and Merlin’s magic slips down the bird’s gullet, and his awareness slips with it. 

The world shifts yet again. Merlin now sees what she sees, for the owl is female. Through her luminescent eyes, the night comes alive, nearly as bright as day. Each minute movement, every shiver of grass, every twitch of leaf, is potential prey. For a while, Merlin takes it all in, the razor-sharp vision and claws, the smooth grace of the neck’s swivel. The sense of power that undergirds the deceptively delicate frame, another creature with which he has something in common.

Perhaps it’s the owl’s hunger, hollow in its belly, that spurs Merlin to stop merely observing and to instead _do_. He craves it, to feel wind beneath those mighty wings. 

At the thought, the owl surges, almost startles, from the branch. But it does not go up, as Merlin intends, but down. There’s a dizzying moment as they plummet, fighting for control of the wings, which jerk out of tandem, ineffective. Then the wings beat once, twice, the ground rises and dips, and they reach it, that perfect balance, Merlin drawing on the owl’s instinct while still preserving his own will. The horizon stabilizes, and the bird wings up and up, above even the tips of the tallest trees and beyond.

Without thought, Merlin directs them north.

He’d been ecstatic to fly before, on the back of a dragon. But he learns now that he hasn’t flown at all, has merely _been_ flown, and the difference is everything, like riding a horse through grass instead of feeling it under the soles of your feet. Now he knows how flying really feels, how it’s effortless and free, how if you tilt your wings this way or that, you can tilt the very world. How it’s terrifying, nothing between you and death but wind.

They fly for what feels like hours, until the air cools and the land shrivels beneath them, snarling into a wild forest that, should you stand before it, might look nigh impassable. But Merlin, he merely glides over it, until beyond, as sudden as a cliff, comes a stretch where nothing grows. Every instinct in the bird screams at him, telling Merlin to wheel around, to go back, this place is death. Yet _onward_ , _onward_ Merlin urges, wings like a heartbeat.

It sneaks up on them so abruptly that they must swerve hard to avoid it, circling up and up, a tower so dark it blends into the night. Around and around they circle the girth of it, looking for a way in. The owl’s wings grow weary, Merlin having pressed her past her usual endurance, short flights to snag a meal. Yet aside from landing on the roof, which seems impossibly steep and slick, Merlin can find no other chink in the tower’s armor.

He tells himself that at least he’s found it, the Dark Tower that no one has ever seen. And his scouting mission has given him a better sense of the terrain they’ll face on their journey. He’s about to release the owl, send her back on her way to fill her belly, when—

 _There_ , Merlin thinks, and they swoop up and settle in a slit of a window that barely fits the owl. Together, they peer into the tower. Beyond is a much larger room than Merlin would have guessed, so large that its edges shroud in a darkness so deep that even the owl’s keen eyes can’t penetrate it. At first, the owl startles at shapes that fill the room, too similar to the outlines of humans for her comfort. But Merlin takes a closer look and assures her that they are nothing but crumbling pillars supporting the ceiling.

Unless someone hides in the shadows, the room seems to be empty. 

It’s the owl whose sharp eyes spy it, a shape half-hidden behind a column in the center of the room. Curled small, as though it’s a child. _Gwen_ , Merlin thinks, and the owl’s claws scrabble at the rusted iron that bars the narrow window. Merlin expects Gwen to bound toward them, more than ready to be rescued.

Yet at the sound, the figure shrinks into itself even more, all but disappearing behind the column. As though the person is _afraid_.

 _Gwen_ , Merlin thinks again, and this time her name seems to reach her. She extends a tentative hand to the ground. Cranes her torso and reveals her face and it’s indeed Gwen, although a Gwen unlike Merlin has ever seen—hair wild and unbound, clothes ripped and filthy, as though Morgana had walked her all the way from Camelot. She seems unharmed, at least on the outside, but there’s something in the dull disinterest in her gaze and the guarded grip to her limbs that makes Merlin uneasy. She looks small and fragile and not at all like the Gwen he knows. Tears have left filthy tracks down her cheeks, as though she no longer cares (or notices) to wipe them away.

Her eyes shine with it, a feverish fear.

Gwen frowns, eyes struggling to focus in the impossible darkness.

“Merlin?” she whispers through fractured lips, the first glimmer of hope. Then her eyes go wide, nostrils flare, and she scrabbles back, deeper into the darkness. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re not real. You’re not _real_.” Even her voice is not the same, broken and hysterical.

 _Gwen_ , Merlin thinks, desperate, trying to reach her. But she’s retreated now even from her name, folded deep into herself, hair draped over her face, rocking gently. Whatever Morgana has done to her, it hasn’t been to her body. It’s been to her mind, the most fragile organ of all. This place festers with dark magic, cloying with it. 

Frantic, Merlin considers, what he can possibly do. He wants to go to her, wishes he could melt iron like wax but it’s _iron_ and the owl already grows weak and he with her. He feels underwater, his magic somewhere above the surface, whether that’s because of the state of the land or because his body is _there_ and not _here_.

 _Don’t think_ , animal instinct says. And so Merlin gathers himself and prepares to try something, anything. He pauses at a fleeting, guilty thought of how his magic might affect the owl, his vessel. But she has been a mama before and recognizes Gwen as a lost owlet, having fallen from the nest. She understands that Merlin must try.

So he reaches into the room and trails phantom fingers across Gwen’s cheek, light as a moth’s wing. She cringes and whines, but he can _feel_ it, that this is something he could do, if he had enough strength and perhaps some of Gwen’s. Somehow, he finds that strength, drawing deep from around and beneath the tower, sucking magic from the land like a tree’s roots. At the same time, he stokes it, Gwen’s own internal fire, quiet like her father’s forge. He finds that it’s not gone, just diminished. 

 _Nest_ , the owl thinks, and that’s what Merlin does, wraps the magic over and around Gwen, strand by strand. Swaddling her in a protective layer that should prepare her for what is to come. Yet Gwen struggles against him, limbs flailing, as though Merlin seeks to suffocate. “Please,” she begs, eyes wide and blind. “Don’t save me. Save _him_.” 

Merlin can’t respond, for he’s too full of magic, no room for words, and also he doesn’t understand what she’s asking. For there’s no Arthur without Gwen. It’s not even a choice, he must save them both. And then he’s distracted by the mama owl’s pain. He’s flown her too close to the sun, and now she wilts, singeing at her edges in the inferno of his magic. It’s too much for her, with her down-tipped feathers and reed-thin bones. Yet even as the owl’s strength fails, her heart does not, for it’s bigger than it seems and brims with love. It urges him on, for Gwen is _innocent_ and _lost_.

And so Merlin gathers everything he has and all of Gwen’s spark and hopes it will be enough. It _must_ be. He pictures Arthur, finds him in his mind’s eye, tucked safe and warm in a bed that’s always been too big for one. Then Merlin pictures Gwen where she belongs, at Arthur’s side. He concentrates on it so very hard, the idea of Gwen curled into the soft warmth of Arthur instead of the cold darkness of crumbling stone. And whatever he’s doing, it seems to work, for Gwen’s edges flicker and fade, as though she becomes a shade.

“Gwen?” someone says, rough and sleepy, and that someone is Arthur, startled awake. He’s pushed up to an elbow, covers puddled around his bare torso. Then, “Gwen!” Arthur cries and reaches for her, desperate for anything to grasp.

If Gwen will just take Arthur’s hand…

But Gwen shies back, cups her ears with her palms, screws her eyes closed so tight. She’s dizzy with it, being stretched across a distance like this, mind and body too fragile, no longer sure what’s real. And Merlin’s losing her, slipping through his fingers, she’s fighting him.

Arthur’s fingers reach…

“What’s this?” another voice says, and this voice is not far but too close and too cold, grating on an owl’s sharp ears. 

Merlin gets a final flash of Arthur’s face, terrible in its desperation, hair dark with sweat, before he dissolves into darkness, the moment lost. Gwen skitters backwards like a crab and disappears into deeper shadow. The owl blinks and pivots toward an apparition that darkens the door to the room, which has blown wide.

Morgana has come at last.

Drawn like a moth of her own to the flame of Merlin’s magic.

 _Wrong_ , the owl thinks, worms twisting at its insides. It’s too much for the poor, brave creature, she’s as dizzy and sick as Gwen, and Merlin feels his grip slip further, at the end of his rope. He can’t hold them both, stretched thin as he is, Gwen in one hand and the owl in the other. With a screech, the owl launches herself from the ledge, unfurling its mighty wings. 

“Emrys,” Morgana hisses and reaches out to _yank_.

The owl jerks with it, as though Morgana has looped a tether around one leg. It flaps, frantic and off-balance, juking this way and that, searching for a way to break free. Merlin holds to the bird as best he can and saws at the spell that binds. To his great dismay, Morgana’s magic is again too _strong,_ clamped around the bird’s claw like an iron manacle.

Morgana says, “I see you’re too afraid to face me yourself.” 

Then she flings out a hand and blows out the window of the room, leaving a gaping hole roughly the height of a misshapen human body. She steps to stand at the edge of the newfound opening and crooks her elbow as a perch. She says nothing, doesn’t have to, for Merlin and the owl feel it as a command in their bones. Despite the owl’s terror, she pivots toward Morgana.

Merlin has seconds until he and the owl are within Morgana’s reach. If she gets her hands on them,  flesh to fowl, the circle of her magic will close, amplified by direct contact, and there will be no freeing the owl and possibly not even him. So Merlin abandons his efforts on the bind and concentrates instead on the bird. He feels it, that tingle of possibility, and then he wills it into being. What he tried to do for Gwen, he does now for the owl, moving it from _here_ to _there_. He doesn’t break the bind so much as move the owl out of its grip, leaving Morgana’s magic encircling nothing but air.

Freed, the owl whirls about and races for the shelter of the Impenetrable Forest. Merlin hopes that it will live up to its name, that Morgana’s sight won’t be able to penetrate the shelter of the trees. And if she can’t see them, she can’t as easily harm them. Behind them, Morgana casts her binding again and again, like a fishing lure. Merlin continues to evade, but only just, skipping the owl through the air like a rock across the surface of a lake.

Morgana raises a second palm, the better to cast a broader net. Yet before she can mutter her next spell, Gwen appears at Morgana’s shoulder, eyes and hair wild. They grapple, the Queen seeking to tip the witch from the ledge. It’s unsafe, Gwen too close to the abyss, and so Merlin reaches back for her, steadying her feet and shoring up her strength. Yet again it’s not enough, he’s stretched too thin, tugged in opposite directions, both push and pull. With a guttural word, Morgana shoves Gwen back, lost again to the darkness.

Merlin throws himself into renewed flight, streaking toward the forest. He can’t help Gwen if he doesn’t help himself. They’re but a handful of wingspans from the edge of the forest when he darts a look back and sees Morgana’s pale face peering from the jagged rent in the dark tower. She’s too far for Merlin to see the hate that mars her once beautiful features. Too far for her to stop them, magic fizzled over the distance. She no longer even raises a palm to make an attempt.

They’re going to make it.

Merlin will shelter the owl in the trees, ensconce her deep in the heart of the forest.He’ll release her then, so she can sleep away the sun and regain her strength for her journey home—

Morgana makes a fist. 

Merlin feels it rather than sees it, a sudden clench around his heart.

The owl goes deathly still, that moment before it dives for the kill, gliding on air, spread glorious and wide. And then it crumples like a piece of parchment. Merlin feels each one, every fragile bone that snaps, wings and claws unnatural and askew. He can’t _breathe_ , for bone slices into their lungs. 

Gwen screams. 

Morgana laughs.

Merlin falls.

Together, he and the owl plummet to the earth. It could be any other exhilarating, harrowing dive, talons reaching to clutch at some hapless prey, a tasty snack. Yet it’s not. This time, there will be no balance, no last-minute flick and snatch, the circle and swoop of life. For its wings fold upward and trail loosely behind, limp and loose. They’re no longer wings at all, merely a sticky clump of bedraggled feathers.

And so they fall.

Merlin _wrenches_ , but it’s as though he and the owl are one. He can feel them as though they’re his own, the mama owl’s final heartbeats. And somewhere, in another tower too far away, his own heart slows in time with hers. Morgana has twisted them up together, twined them at their roots. He can’t extricate himself, can’t tell where his magic ends and the owl begins.

The ground rushes toward them, until it’s all Merlin can see. 

Merlin closes his eyes.

But this little mama owl, she might be broken, but she’s not beaten, not yet. She still has shuddering breath in her lungs and stuttering beats in her heart. And so with the last of her strength, she _shoves_ at him, as though Merlin is her last owlet, and this little one will learn to fly. Somehow, she relinquishes him from the safety of her breast and releases him into the air. He floats light as a feather, a dust mote, she a stone, leaving him behind.

Somewhere below, an owl falls, a few feet from a forest, and it makes no sound. Yet Merlin feels it in every sliver and shiver of his being, as though lightning has licked at his insides. Gravity jolts him back into himself, into his cage of flesh and bone, weak and heavy and wet.

He opens his eyes and everything is too dark, and he’s at the top of the north tower in Camelot, splayed like a sacrifice on the stone floor of the battlement, a scream in his throat and a hurt in his heart and iron in his mouth.

 _I killed her_ , he thinks. The owl, Gwen, both.

Above him, the sky weeps and so does he.

* * *

 

Somehow, Merlin claws himself from the north tower. Somehow, he drags himself through the castle, unheard and unseen, despite the fact that he stumbles in to every door, table, and chair that separates him like an obstacle course from his chambers. Somehow, he staggers through his own door at last and climbs three small steps that feel like cliffs. He’s never been more glad to see it, his too-small bed with lumps he can never quite smooth, not even with magic. 

Then he face-plants into his pillow and snuffs out.


	9. Chapter 9

They come for him in the darkest hour.

Merlin wakes to a clatter in his antechamber—the splinter of wood, the stamp of feet, the clang of armor. He jolts up in bed, bracing against the headboard, crooking up his knees as though they can shield him from what’s to come. Candles scattered throughout his room sputter to life, as if they react to the surge in his emotions. Yet their paltry light is not enough to ward against the gloom, the doom. He’s weak, head thick and sluggish, worse than a night out with Gwaine.

He’s not ready for this.

He’ll never be ready for this.

Merlin gropes for his magic like he would a lost bedsheet in the night. He needs its comfort, the feel of it like armor beneath his skin. He won’t hurt anyone, but if it’s a sorcerer they want, a sorcerer they’ll get. If he’s to face Arthur as Emrys, he wants to do so under his own power, standing on his own two feet. He won’t be dragged and deposited before a King like some common criminal. Never again.

Yet Merlin comes up…empty. His magic is there but strangely quiescent, far from the surface. The candles must have been a fluke, some lingering spark. He tries again, mouth shaping the first spell he can think of.

“Stranga—”

The door to his room flies open. Merlin’s overwhelmed with a vision of red and silver, face swathed in shadow, some guard come to apprehend him in the name of the King. Yet when the person doesn’t surge in, doesn’t move to subdue him, Merlin’s panic recedes. He takes a second look and sees that it’s not some guard after all.

It’s Arthur. Arthur, who wears his armor, but it’s askew, lumpy and loose, as though he’d thrown it on in a hurry, and badly to boot. Merlin almost laughs, for it’s absurd, that he was afraid of _this_.

That is, until he looks at Arthur’s _face_.

The King has stripped away, no hint of the warrior. Instead, standing before Merlin is a little boy who looks as though he’s woken from some nightmare and dressed in his father’s armor, for it makes him feel safe. Arthur’s eyes are heavy with exhaustion, hair snarled from sleep, his comb perpetually misplaced. Some manic energy thrums under his skin, darting his gaze here and there, curling his fingers.

Somehow, Merlin knows this isn’t about magic. Whatever Mordred has decided to do, he has not done it yet.

Arthur looks everywhere but at Merlin, as though he’s ashamed to be seen like this. Upon finding Merlin awake, he strides to the wardrobe, throws it open, and yanks out a spare blue tunic.

“Get up,” he says, chucking it toward the bed. “We’re leaving.”

Merlin catches the cloth but merely clutches it to his chest. He looks to the window, no hint of light between the slats. He doesn’t know how long he slept, but it’s not been long enough. 

“It’s still dark.”

“It can’t wait.”

In two steps, Arthur’s by the bed, levering Merlin to his feet. He grabs the edge of Merlin’s shirt and hauls. Before Merlin knows what’s happening, his tunic is over his head, fluttering to the floor. He cringes and crosses his arms over his chest, chilled and exposed, battered in this whirlwind.

Arthur’s dressing him. Rather, Arthur’s _undressing_ him.

Arthur’s fingers are on his laces, they’re grasping and yanking. Merlin bats them away, before they can do too much damage. And not only to the laces.

“Don’t be a prude,” Arthur sneers. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Actually, it is, for Merlin has been very, very judicious about this. He takes an emphatic step back, puts a hand to the King’s chest. The other hand holds up his trousers, which threaten to sag from his hips.

“Arthur,” he says, sharp. “Tell me what’s happened.”

His name seems to reach him. Arthur shudders as though Merlin has doused him with water. He retreats and wanders a few paces, lost. Then he slumps on a chest against the wall. He seems unable to speak.

Merlin knows—he just _knows_ —that he’s going to regret asking this. Yet he can’t not. “Did you speak to Mordred?”

Arthur’s head surges. “Mordred?” He sounds genuinely confused. “Not since last night.”

Merlin feels dizzy with it, the relief. He pushes it aside, for there’s no time to think about that. The executioner’s axe still hovers, but at least Merlin has more time.  

“Then what…?”

“I saw Gwen,” Arthur says. He blazes at Merlin, as though daring him to contradict. “I know it sounds…” He shakes his head. “But I saw her, in the night. She looked…”

Extinguished. Desolate. Teetering on the edge. Merlin knows exactly how she looked. He’d seen her, through an owl’s shrewd eyes.

“I reached for her, but she…” Arthur clenches a fist. “I couldn’t reach her.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, swallowing something large and painful. “It was just a dream.” He shucks on his shirt and he _hates_ himself.

“It was no dream,” Arthur bites. “It was real. I don’t know how. But she was here.” 

Merlin steps to a corner of the room, turns his back to Arthur, and drops his trousers. He stumbles into fresh ones, dressing more quickly than he has in his life, no time for finesse.

Arthur stares dully into the distance, paying Merlin and his modesty no mind. He murmurs, “Why would she do this? Why would Morgana want me to see her?”

Merlin turns back, fiddling with his laces. “So you’d know she’s alive?”

Arthur’s eyes snap to his. “It was a threat. Morgana grows impatient.”

Merlin steps to his washbasin. “We have two days.” He dips in and paints his face, his neck. Then he pats himself down with a cloth.

“She knows we’ve yet to find Emrys. Perhaps last night was an…incentive. Merlin,” Arthur says, a sudden shift. “Morgana has done something to her.”

“Gwen’s strong.” Merlin refuses to consider, what Morgana might have done to her after he left. 

“Morgana’s stronger.” Arthur’s expression is dark, defeated.

“We’ll get her back.” Merlin approaches Arthur as he would a unicorn in the wild. He extends an arm. “This I swear.”

Arthur eyes Merlin’s offer, doubtful. But he doesn’t say it, that there’s no way Merlin can promise anything of the sort. When he clasps Merlin’s hand at last, Merlin takes it for exactly what it is—trust. Arthur even lets Merlin take some of his weight, guide him up.

“Now,” Merlin says. He takes a closer look at the mess Arthur’s made of his armor. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

“What does it matter?” Arthur mumbles, the futility of armor. But he remains pliant as Merlin begins to undress Arthur, taking him apart, undoing the haphazard fastenings and crooked fits. Impossibly, his hauberk is _backwards_.

They dress in silence, words are superfluous. Under Merlin’s ministrations, Arthur settles, going bright and hard, all narrow eyes and solid jaw, the way he gets before a battle, visualizing hundreds of scenarios and how he might respond, trying to think five steps ahead of his opponent, the way he does in chess. Merlin moves around him, quiet and sure, natural as breathing. Arthur holds out an arm, Merlin swoops in with a cuff. Merlin touches his shoulder, Arthur ducks his head. His hauberk settles like a yoke.

They don’t use words, but underneath, there are wordless things like _I’m here_ and _I’m glad_. Merlin’s fingers push and pull, knitting a King back together, piece by piece. They even run through that golden hair, an impromptu comb. And then Merlin steps back and it’s done, Arthur resplendent in full regalia, candlelight catching and dazzling at his edges. Before Merlin can withdraw, Arthur palms his shoulder, holds him close. He rests a gloved hand, the way he never does.

They _look_ at each other.

In Arthur’s face, Merlin sees everything—desperation and determination and yes, even a hint of fear that Arthur would hide from anyone but him. _Thank you_ , Arthur seems to say. _It’s my honor_ , Merlin says right back. Things they would never say, not out loud.

Merlin swipes some imaginary dust from Arthur’s shoulder.

“Let’s go save the Queen.”

* * *

 

Though it’s early yet, the courtyard is all a’flurry. Red capes swirl between the milling horses, an intricate dance as the knights flit here and there, packing the last of the provisions. Even Gwaine is here early, a minor miracle. Merlin moves to relieve the stableboy who clutches Torrento and Diablo’s reins as though they’re holding him up. The boy stumbles off, likely to get a few more winks before his day truly begins.

Merlin turns back to see Sir Leon conferring closely with Arthur, some tense exchange. Heat blooms in his gut, but he stands still, forces himself to watch. When Arthur’s eyes flit to Merlin’s, intense, he knows exactly what this is about. Leon barks orders, and the knights scatter, striding toward all points on the compass, some final errand. Arthur, though, strides toward Merlin.

“What is it?” Merlin calls.

Arthur waits to answer until he’s close enough to watch Merlin’s face, every minute tick. 

“Mordred,” he says.

Merlin stays impassive, shifting to study Diablo’s girth. She has a bad habit of holding her breath when you cinch her up. When she releases the breath later, the saddle tends to sag, usually at an inconvenient time. Like when Merlin’s on it.

“What about him?” With all his strength, Merlin yanks up on the girth strap. Diablo fights him for every millimetre.

“I think you know.” Arthur’s inflection is strange, stilted.

“Not sure what you’re—”

“Don’t.” It’s amazing, how much Arthur can say with a single word.

Merlin releases the girth strap, steps back from Diablo. Bows his head, doesn’t look at Arthur. “He’s gone?”

“You knew,” Arthur breathes. 

What Merlin _knew_ is that he should never have asked about Mordred earlier. Arthur’s too sharp to have missed it. “I…suspected.”

“Tell me how. Right now.” The tone brooks no argument. In times like these, Merlin goes as close to the truth as he can get. With a bit of babble and bumble thrown in.

“The night of the feast, after you kicked me from your chambers...” A purposeful pause.

Arthur stiffens. “I don’t _kick_ you.”

Probably not the right moment to bring up the incident last week. “Right. After you _dismissed_ me, Mordred and I spoke.”

Merlin places his hands on Diablo’s belly and pushes. She huffs. Immediately, he’s back at the strap. He tightens it another notch, but it’s not nearly enough.

When Merlin falls silent, Arthur prompts, “About?”

“You have to understand. Everyone had gone a bit mad that night, bandying ideas about—”

The trick is to surprise the breath out of her. And so Merlin does, dodging right under her belly. This startles the mare to such a degree, how dare he, that she starts on a rear.

Arthur snatches at her bridle, and she goes docile because of course she does. The King’s head pops up above her saddle. “Mer—” he begins, but Merlin’s bent low again, inspecting the girth from another angle.

With an exasperated sigh, Arthur crouches and peers under Diablo. “Merlin.”

But Merlin’s stepped off to Diablo’s head, rearranging her bit. “After the Council,” he says, “I thought he must have abandoned the idea—”

Arthur swings round the horse and pins Merlin by both shoulders. “What idea?”

Merlin swallows. “He wanted to go to Morgana. Alone.”

Arthur gapes. “That’s suicide.”

“Never stopped him before.” They’re both thinking of them, the numerous missions Mordred has volunteered for and survived.

Arthur releases Merlin, steps back and away, eyes exploding with thought. He says, “Mordred has always sought your approval. If he had the slightest inclination—”

Merlin’s already shaking his head. “He had none.I told him it was a terrible idea.”

“You should have told _me_.”

Merlin sheds his bumble like a second skin, smile gentle yet firm. “Your knights talk to me because I _don’t_ tell you.”

That shuts Arthur right up, for he knows Merlin is right. All evidence to the contrary, Merlin does know when to keep his mouth shut. 

“Still,” Arthur says at last, “this wasn’t Gwaine threatening what he’ll do for some ale. Out of all of them, Mordred is the least likely to blow smoke. You should have told me.” There’s less weight to it now. The thing is done. Arthur’s brow furrows, thoughts racing. “He’s young. He fancies himself invincible, and I guess I inadvertently encouraged this. But surely he knows he can’t defeat Morgana alone. What could he be thinking?”

Dread curls like a sleeping dragon in Merlin’s belly as he waits for Arthur’s impressive mind to work it out, as he always has, as he always will. When he does, his eyes fly to Merlin’s, true as an arrow. They reflect Merlin’s concern. Arthur says it, what they’re both thinking:

“He’s going to tell her he’s Emrys.”

* * *

 

Within the hour, a small band of Camelot’s finest plunges into the mist-curled forest that creeps across the lands to the north. Merlin brings up the rear of their small company, organs jostling like a sack of potatoes, a far cry from his last ride with Arthur, just the two of them. Under his breath, he whispers the simple spell he uses to improve his seat. Nothing happens. The magic still doesn’t come. 

Ever the optimist, Arthur thinks they can catch Mordred. Merlin knows better. A sense of unease pervades, the first time in his life his magic hasn’t come when he calls. What he’d dismissed in the early morning as a hiccup, perhaps borne of fear, is something deeper. His physical health returns, head no longer pounding, limbs no longer aching. Yet his magic does not. It’s there, somewhere deep, as though trapped beneath the surface of a frozen lake. It stirs, but he cannot reach it. The confrontation with Morgana had taken more than he knew. 

Mordred is gone, and so is Merlin’s magic. 

Perhaps this is the price, of an innocent creature’s life.

Perhaps this is how a prophecy comes true.

* * *

 

They’re only a few miles into their journey when Merlin feels it, a prickle on his nape. At the same moment, Leon calls, “Sire!” with a note of panic, already swinging off his horse. The other knights rein their mounts and look up to where he points at a sinuous shape that’s appeared high in the sky, barely visible through the trees.

It’s unmistakably a dragon.

A white one.

Like Morgana, the dragon’s limbs are wasted and twisted, its wings sickly and transparent, impossible that they could bear weight. Yet somehow, like Morgana, she has clawed her way to the skies. Her wings work twice as hard, an odd hitch to their flap, but they fly. She circles them now, long neck craned as if searching.

Aithusa, all grown up. 

The apparition throws Arthur’s less-than-merry band into chaos. Knights hurdle off their steeds, extract weapons, and drop into a defensive crouch, Arthur the nucleus. Merlin huddles under the cover of a tree, out of the way, yet ready to intervene if needed. He can only hope that the prickle means his dragon-magic is unaffected by whatever malaise has befallen him.

But the dragon doesn’t attack and doesn’t attack, until finally it’s Elyan who suggests that perhaps it’s not here to harm them, not this time. Perhaps it serves as Morgana’s eyes and ears in the sky. They wait a few more precious yet uneventful minutes, then collect the horses, which have scattered. The steeds are skittish, sensing the looming threat. 

They ride on. 

High above, a white dragon keeps pace with their steps, winging in languorous circles like a buzzard. Under the strain, the horses startle easily and tire quickly, as if the journey is not already arduous enough. It doesn’t help that Arthur redoubles their speed, as though he thinks they can outrun a dragon. Even Gwaine begins to go a little grim. Merlin lags even farther behind, until he’s several horse lengths from the rest of the knights, Arthur a few lengths ahead. Yet still the dragon doesn’t attack, doesn’t swoop close enough to breathe fire.

As dusk descends, Arthur shows no signs of slowing. Likely he seeks to squeeze every last drop of daylight before they’re forced to stop. Ahead, the knights clump and wait for Merlin to catch up. Gwaine inclines his head. “We’re stopping. Break the news to the princess, would you?”

Merlin sighs but does as he’s asked, for he knows as well as they that the only one who can catch Arthur now is Diablo. And the only one who can _reach_ him now is Merlin. And so Merlin gives Diablo her head at last and holds on. Despite how long she’s been running, the mare responds with a fresh burst of speed. With a few mighty bounds, she draws abreast. Arthur doesn’t even glance to see who it is, so intent is he on the path ahead, smudged by encroaching dark.

“Sire,” Merlin calls, mindful of their audience. “We must stop.”

Arthur scowls, but he does rein in Torrento to a more manageable pace, so they can hear each other. “We’ll stop when we can’t see.”

Merlin pulls up, brings Diablo to a stop. Unconsciously, Arthur echoes him. “We’ve just enough light to make camp.” Arthur follows Merlin’s gaze, back to where the knights have dismounted. They stand like soldiers at inspection, watching to see what Arthur decides.

“If they can’t keep up,” Arthur snaps, “they shouldn’t have come.”

“It’s not them,” Merlin says. “It’s the horses.”

Arthur looks down at Torrento’s withers, which are soaked dark. The stallion doesn’t quite wheeze, but it’s a close thing. Yet still he tosses his head, fighting with the reins. He won’t quit, not until his legs run out from under him. Arthur’s lips press, but he says nothing more. Resigned, he tugs a reign until Torrento steps in a wide circle. 

Together, Arthur and Merlin head back to where the knights have begun to unburden the horses. Arthur looks sour, for their every step is in the wrong direction. 

When they arrive at the copse the knights have designated their resting spot for the evening, Merlin doesn’t dismount so much as slide off his horse. And then it’s a few moments before he can convince his legs to bear his weight. He takes his time tethering Diablo with her kin, waiting for the right moment. Then, when everyone is focused on setting up camp, the horses’ bodies as his shield, Merlin turns and steps deeper into the forest.

“Merlin,” Gwaine booms. “Ducking out of work again?”

Merlin turns to find everyone craning at him. Gwaine grins. Arthur does not.

“I’m not, I just have to—” He caves his shoulders inward, jittering, and waves a hand at the forest.

“Me, too,” Gwaine says. He drops his bedroll in a heap and strides forward.

“No,” Merlin says, too quickly. “I mean, this is something I need to do. Alone.”

“Nonsense. Alone isn’t safe. That dragon will gobble you up.”

“It won’t want me. I’m skin and bones.”

Gwaine’s not deterred. “Still, I’m not letting you—”

“For gods’ sake,” Arthur snaps. “He doesn’t like it when people watch.”

Gwaine smacks into an invisible wall. The knights snicker. Percy slaps Gwaine so hard on the shoulder that he trips and scatters the firewood Elyan has patiently stacked. (Elyan’s a wiz with fire, him being a blacksmith and all.)

“We’re making camp, children,” Leon says. “Not breaking it.”

In the chaos, Merlin slips away, not waiting for Arthur to decide that Gwaine has a point. They don’t know that Merlin _wants_ the dragon to come.

Behind him, Gwaine says, “I don't _watch_.”

* * *

 

When the dragon disappears, winging into the setting sun, everyone rests a bit easier. Aithusa hadn’t been happy to be summoned. She made her displeasure known, greeting Merlin with fire. His magic had responded, an instinctive shield that saved his life, siphoning her flame to either side. Still, it was a close thing, for his coat smokes at the edges. So when Merlin hurries back to camp, he plants himself as close to Elyan’s fire as he dares.

Gwaine leans in and takes an exaggerated sniff. “You smell like you had a brush with a forest fire.”

“Em,” Merlin says.

Elyan’s expression is evil. “Sure you’ll be wanting to talk smells, Gwaine?”

Arthur remains stoic, gone to that place in his head. He mills about the camp, unable to settle. Something bothers him. “Did you notice,” he says, interrupting a diatribe from Gwaine about how often he washes his socks, “that the dragon flew into the sun?”

“Very dramatic, that dragon,” Gwaine agrees, eager for a change in subject.

Merlin keeps his head down, shoveling stew, as the knights consider what this might mean, that the dragon had not flown north. None of them guesses it, that a Dragonlord had sent Aithusa off on an errand of his own. One that should take weeks, if not months. Merlin has ensured that Morgana will wield one less weapon in the upcoming battle.

It’s not long before darkness lays them down to sleep, bodies like the spokes of a wheel, heads toward the fire. Merlin’s on one side of Arthur, Gwaine on the other. After all have settled, Arthur rolls to his side to face Merlin. He says nothing for a long while, not until the fire has quieted and stars dot the sky and Gwaine’s snoring like a sow. Only then, as Merlin is about to slide from drowse to dream, does Arthur whisper, “Is he Emrys?”

It would be so easy, to feign sleep, for Merlin’s eyes are closed, and Arthur doesn’t want an answer, not really. There’s a long pause as Merlin considers the question, one he’s refused to ask. Longer still until he can work out the answer.

“I don’t know.”

It’s not even a lie.

 


	10. Chapter 10

A foot kicks Merlin’s shin. Merlin doesn’t move from where he’s wrapped in his bedroll. The foot kicks his thigh. 

“‘m up,” he mumbles and curls away. A beat, and the foot kicks Merlin’s arse.

Merlin throws out a leg, hooks an ankle, and _yanks_. There’s a muffled curse as his assailant nearly loses his footing. Merlin doesn’t crack an eye. “Serves you right for kicking me.”

“I’m not.” Unbelievably, the foot is back, burrowing between Merlin’s ribs.

Merlin seizes to a seat. Every muscle groans, from behind his ear to the arch of his foot. He’s always healed quickly, a side effect of his gifts. Yet this night, his magic hasn’t healed him, hasn’t rejuvenated him from within. At this rate, there will be no reason for him to accompany Arthur into the Dark Tower. He’ll be as useless as Arthur always says.

Speaking of, Arthur stands above him, clearly thinking the same. Yet Arthur says nothing. Doesn’t chastise Merlin for lounging abed. Instead, he extends a water skin.

Grateful, Merlin accepts the offering and tips it back. Back and back, yet nary a drop.

“You’ll want to fill that,” Arthur says, over his shoulder, already moving off.

* * *

 

The stream flows steady, criss-crossed with a healthy amount of fallen trees and meandering cutbacks that trap water into a sanctuary for all sorts of interesting creatures. 

As Merlin picks his way toward an exposed bank that overlooks a serene pool, he feels a cool breeze waft from the water, a good indication that the stream likely started as snow atop the craggy peaks they rapidly approach. It chills his skin, raising the hairs. Yet it’s not only from the cold. He gets some sense that he’s not alone. That eyes watch. And then it comes, a tinkle of laughter.

He listens. “Is someone there?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the burble of the stream. Likely just some trick of sound. Then something splashes at his feet, and he startles. He looks down to see a silver shape dart away.

“Oh,” he says, feeling silly. It’s a fish. “Sorry to scare you.”

Gingerly, Merlin works his way to a crouch. His hamstrings scream, knees creak. When he lowers his leather skin in to the water, he gets another nasty shock. Literally. He yelps and draws his hand back as though he’s been stung. The water skin splats to the bank, water bubbling back to the earth. His fingers tingle, and he tells himself that it’s just from the cold.

Ready this time, he tries again, lowering the skin into the water. He would have thought he’d be acclimated by now or at least gone numb. But if anything, the cold feels worse than before, daggers against his flesh. At least this time, there’s no sudden sting. He forces himself to hold the skin under, as long as he can. When it’s full enough, he goes to pull out.

He can’t.

The skin has snagged on something. Merlin dips a second hand to feel around its base. Yet the straps drift free, nothing for them to catch on. The water is so clear he can see straight to the smooth rocks that line the bottom. The sense of being watched intensifies.

Merlin tugs at his hands in earnest. Yet still they remain fast, as though they’re clamped in the stocks. He can wiggle his fingers, make fists, but can’t move his wrists.

Merlin stills and considers his options. His hands feel as though they’re on _fire_. This has gone from curious to dangerous. This isn’t natural. It’s sorcery. Perhaps some latent trap that Morgana has planted on their path to ensnare Emrys. 

If Merlin’s magic were cooperating, he could use it to extricate himself. But he can feel that it’s drained further in the night. He’s almost afraid to call. He tries anyway, a wordless cry, can’t chance a sound. Somewhere within, his magic flutters. But it’s a bird with a broken wing, can’t take flight. It’s weaker than he’s ever felt. He tries again and again until he breathes heavily and something within him seems to fracture. Now his magic hardly stirs, a corpse at the bottom of a cage.

Moments pass as Merlin fights to stay calm, nothing to be gained by flailing against the inevitable. He sits still and waits. Waits for someone to come find him, defenseless as a bunny in a snare.

Soon he becomes aware of a sound, a murmur beneath the tumble of water over rock. And the sound, it’s a _voice_. Merlin cranes an ear toward the water. As he gets closer, careful not to tip forward into the stream, the sound gets stronger, filtering from the water itself. He begins to make out the words.

“…can’t have it. We won’t let you. Won’t help you. Not you. Never you.”

The sentiment repeats, a babble of _can’ts_ and _won’ts_. Incongruous, that such a mellifluous voice would deliver such hateful words. He gets the sense that this stream doesn’t want him to steal its water. It doesn’t seem malicious, merely stubborn. But before he can move, a wave crests, and water laps over his ear. It’s a slap to the face, ice on his cheek. The voices are louder now, a steady chant.

“Stop,” Merlin gurgles, but the voices don’t stop. They don’t seem to hear.

Water pours into his mouth, down his throat, filling him up. Water seeks to _drown_ him. He struggles against it, flailing like a fish on a line, but to no avail. If anything, his efforts draw him deeper, until his face is fully submerged.

Merlin thought he’s known fear. 

But he’s known nothing.

Panic grips with an iron fist. He can’t breathe. He’s snorting water and choking on it. Water swallows his eyeballs, his nostrils, his lips. All it will take is an inhale and water will flood his lungs and Arthur will come looking to see what’s taking so long and will find him here, face-down, only Merlin could drown in two feet of water— 

The thought of Arthur sparks Merlin’s magic. Weak, like a dying gasp, but it’s enough to wrench Merlin free and lurch him backward. He lands hard on the bank, choking and coughing.

The stream isn’t done with him. Below, water roils and boils, it means to flood him. Merlin scrabbles farther up the bank. From his vantage point, he can see that the water no longer flows in its usual direction. It circles into a whirlpool, gathering itself. Instead of funneling down, as such whirlpools do, the water funnels up. It rises and congeals into an amorphous shape that eventually settles into something that could pass as human. 

More specifically, a woman. Merlin can see through her, to the trees beyond. A few tadpoles flit in her belly, frantic. When they breach her skin, they pop out and dive back into the stream.

Merlin stares.

She stares right back. “Oh,” she says, though she has no mouth. “It’s you.” Her face is fluid, no eyes or nose or lips, so no hint of human expression. Yet Merlin detects a note of wonder. “We are the same.” 

She contorts this way and that, studying him from all angles. Then she surges forward, her face an inch from his nose. Merlin flashes his palm (habit), and the woman draws back. She sheds water until she’s no bigger than a child.

“We mean you no harm.”

Merlin coughs. “You tried to _drown_ me.”

“We sought to cleanse you.”

Ominous. “From what?”

The woman undulates. “Blood magic.” Merlin had read the term once in a book he’d burned. But he’s not sure, what it might have to do with him. “Let us help you.”

The water-girl holds out an appendage that might be an arm. It has no fingers. Yet it’s a gesture he recognizes. She’s asking him to trust.

Merlin can't. “Fool me once.”

“We helped you before. We will again.”

 _Before_ , she says, as in—

“The dorocha. That was you?”

“Our sisters.”

Merlin can’t believe he’s considering having another go. There’s little chance his magic will save him, not again, should this be a trap. Yet he doesn’t like the sound of this blood magic. And he has no quarrel with the water spirits.

So he inhales and takes her hand. This time, the water doesn’t feel cold. It’s almost warm, soothing. A good sign, he decides, and lets her draw him forward, gentle this time. He kneels anew on the bank. The water-woman releases him and melts back into the stream, as though she never was.

Merlin dips a single finger. For several seconds, nothing happens. Then, illuminated shapes begin to drift toward him, wriggling through the water like tadpoles. They converge on his finger as though it’s a lure. When they touch his skin, they wiggle through it and _into_ him. He can feel them breach his flesh like leeches, and he braces for the pain. Instead, it almost tickles. He can see them, moving like lightning under his skin, swimming up his veins, racing up his arm. In its wake, the lights leave shiny and clean, like the swipe of a rag against filthy armor. 

The motes of light begin to illuminate his insides. And somehow, he can see within, to his deepest, darkest places. Healing magic has never been his strongest gift. But the few times he’s been successful at healing people—Arthur, Morgana, even Uther—it felt a bit like this. He was starting to get a glimpse of what could be. 

But this. 

This is a million times better. 

He can see his innards as clearly as a map. He can see why his magic won’t come, why he’s been so lethargic, why he won’t heal. For there’s a sticky black pitch spread like a fungus across his insides. It’s coated his magic, grounded it.

“Blood magic,” the water murmurs. “Of the witch.”

There’s only one witch they could mean. This was Morgana’s doing after all, a parting gift during their last encounter. She took an owl’s life and used that blood, that death to plant an insidious seed within Merlin. One that would have grown and grown and consumed, had not the water sprite sussed it out.

Merlin is abruptly parched, as though he’s gone days without water. He splashes both arms in, braces himself on the rocks at the bottom, and lowers his head to drink. Liquid spills over his lips, his tongue, better than any kiss. Yet it’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough. Greedy, Merlin shoves his whole head under the water.

The world shifts.

He can hear them now, the voices. So many voices, as though he’s stepped into a crowded marketplace. Lively spirits going about their lives, doing their part to keep the water clear and its creatures healthy. And as he becomes aware of them, they become aware of him. His presence ripples through them, not unlike when Arthur struts through the lower town. These are Merlin’s people. Like him, they are creatures of magic.

 _It’s him_ , they say. _Him_ , others echo.

They come from miles upstream and downstream, swarming to him, placing their hands on him.

He relaxes and opens himself to it, to them, lets water flow over and through him. Slowly, water washes him clean, makes him whole. Morgana’s stain wipes away, powerless in the face of water’s gentle persistence. For the first time, Merlin understands how mighty water can be. Even the mountains give way before it. It brings life to all corners of the earth, the blood vessels of the land. Here, with his arms rooted into the stream, Merlin feels omniscient, for he can see many places at once, all across Albion, the places where water roams.

He could have remained underwater forever, exploring the reaches of the land, feeling himself expanded and infinite. 

“It is done,” water murmurs, a caress in his ear, and Merlin can feel it. With magic in his breast and water at his fingertips, he can carve mountains like clay. He can rustle up a hurricane. He could send a tsunami to tumble a tower. “We’ll spread the word.”

Before his lips can shape words, to ask what word they will spread, to whom they will spread it, there’s a jerk at his neck. Someone yanks him bodily by the collar, out of the water, out of that world.

Merlin sprawls to the earth, stunned. He can no longer hear them, the voices. The silence _aches_. His hands are hands. Water is only water.

“Hey,” a voice says. “Wake up.” A hand pats at his cheek.

He focuses on Gwaine’s face. The knight kneels before him, hands on his shoulders. Holding him up.

“His Royal Backside sent me to make sure you hadn’t fallen in,” Gwaine says. “I didn’t think he meant literally.” Despite his jovial smile, his eyes are worried.

Merlin shakes his head, focusing himself, dislodging water from his ears. “Sorry, I was…” There are no words for what he was doing, not really. “Communing with a water nymph.” He tacks on a cheeky grin, as though he jokes.

Gwaine doesn’t seem convinced, but Merlin has said the magic word. This knight can’t resist a nymph. “Introduce me?” 

He pulls Merlin to his feet. Merlin unfurls to his full height and nothing hurts. For the first time in days, he stands tall. He stands _strong_.

Merlin pushes past Gwaine, pats his shoulder. “You’re not her type.”

Behind him, Gwaine splays his hands wide. “I’m everyone’s type.”

* * *

 

Merlin and Gwaine rough and tumble through the woods. Merlin bursts with energy, a puppy. It’s not enough to walk when you could _run_. And so he does, racing back to camp as though a dorocha is on his heels. Gwaine can’t keep up, not today. When Merlin bursts from the trees, alone, he startles the knights into reaching for their swords.

Merlin holds up his hands, conciliatory. “Sorry, sorry.” His grin is infinite.

Arthur stares at him, unable to reconcile this energetic apparition with his stormcloud of a servant. Gwaine tackles Merlin from behind. Merlin has to stagger to keep his feet. 

Arthur’s mouth goes hard. “I didn’t say take a bath.”

Merlin shrugs. “I slipped.” Then he slants a glance at Gwaine and _winks_.

Something winks in Arthur’s eyes, too. If Merlin didn’t know better, he’d think it was hurt. “This is no time for shenanigans. We ride in five.” He turns back to Torrento, and that’s that.

Merlin swallows a reply, for there’s no way to share his newfound ebullience. Arthur can’t know that it bodes well for them all. With a final waggle of eyebrows, he and Gwaine hop to it. Everyone else is already packed, fiddling with their saddlebags. Elyan’s baptizing the fire with dirt, scattering the embers and ashes, leaving little trace. 

Merlin hastens to catch up. To his surprise, he finds nothing but dirt where he and Arthur had lain. His bedroll is already a fat sausage at his saddle. He catches Arthur’s side-eye. The King’s stern expression doesn’t change, but Merlin knows this is his way of apologizing for the water skin.

In less than five minutes, they’re mounted. Diablo snorts in surprise at the ease with which Merlin swings astride her. She cranes her neck, peering an eye to validate that he’s the same person. As though channeling her rider’s mood, she prances, eager as a colt. 

Merlin swigs his water. It continues to work its magic, that cool refresh on his lips, buzzing at his tongue. He can’t help it, he laughs.

Gwaine swoops in from nowhere and snatches the skin. “I’ll have what you’re having.” He takes a sniff and seems disappointed that it’s just water.

They ride. 

Merlin, he feels like he could fly. He feels the world around him as acutely as if he were an owl, his senses as sharp as a predator’s. Every branch that brushes his leg, every step of a hoof, every particle of air he breathes into his lungs—they each leave behind a sliver and shiver of themselves.

He wonders if this is what the nymph had meant, that she’d spread the word to her kin, the tree sprites and wood sprites, the dryads and the fae, spirits of the earth and air. He’s heard stories of such spirits but never seen them for himself. Or, in this case, felt them.

They lend him their strength, piece by piece.

As Merlin’s magic swells, he shares it freely, for that’s what it’s for. It’s meant to be used, it’s meant to be shared. Through sharing, it grows. Magic straightens shoulders and smooths brows and puts springs in steps. If any in the small company looked back, they might see it, their path sprouted with green. But no one does look back, for they face forward, eyes on what’s to come. 

Ahead lie the White Mountains, aptly named for their year-round blanket of snow. Back in Arthur’s chambers, there had been much discussion of the best way to overcome this obstacle. Ever practical, Sir Leon had suggested they circumvent the mountains, instead follow the river as it cuts its swath to the east. But Arthur has heard rumors of a hidden pass. It’s a long shot, yet it would shave hours off their trek, perhaps even half a day. He thinks it’s worth the risk. 

And so they ride, up and up, past where even the hardiest of trees won’t grow. Yet the mountains rise farther still, imposing as an enemy’s keep. As they step from the cover of the trees, the wind picks up, snatching at their clothing, nipping at their flesh. Everyone else tucks their fur cloaks more firmly about them, having come prepared. Merlin wears several extra tunics and leggings beneath his usual attire, though he knows from past experience that they do little to block a wind like this. Yet on this day, he hardly feels the cold. If anything, it invigorates him. He can taste the ice in the air. It dissolves on his tongue.

Merlin thinks that, if Arthur asked, he could move this mountain. 

Arthur draws up and considers, his expression as forbidding as the rocks ahead. They have but two options, a simple right or left. But the choice is life or death for Guinevere. For they can’t afford to backtrack, should Arthur choose wrong. Merlin searches the path ahead but finds only stone, as far as he can see and farther still. There are too many nooks and crannies for him to explore, at least not quickly. 

He catches Arthur looking, curious about his intense focus. Perhaps the King hopes he’s had a _feeling_. Merlin’s mouth quirks down, an apology. With a tight nod, Arthur wheels Torrento to the right.

They’ve hardly gone a few paces when Sir Leon makes a choked noise. A ghostly shape blocks their path, where nothing had stood before. It’s an overlarge feline, the size of a small pony. Undercoat of the purest white, spotted with black, eyes of ice. Although Merlin has never seen one in the fur, he recognizes it as a snow leopard. Elusive. Rarely seen by the eyes of men, oft called the unicorn of the mountains.

The cat watches them steadily. It’s still except the tip of its tail, which twitches.

There’s a creak as Percy eases back a bolt on his crossbow. The other knights grip their hilts, at the ready. For all they know, this might be another envoy from Morgana. Before Merlin can speak, can warn against such folly, Arthur holds up a hand.

Percy lowers his bow.

Arthur’s no stranger to apparitions in the wild. Wisely, he decides not to look a gift cat in the mouth. Of course, the cat chooses that moment to yawn wide, baring pearly teeth like daggers. It seems unconcerned, bored. Merlin expects that it will lose interest any moment, slip back to whence it came.

Instead, the cat licks its chops and stalks _toward_ them. Right at them, as though it means to engage.

“Hold,” Arthur mutters, and everyone does. Defiant, Arthur stares down the cat as it bears on him, betraying no fear. Torrento has no such compunction. He snorts and sidles, and Arthur’s forearms cord with the effort of holding the stallion in place. Merlin prepares himself to intervene with a thought. The cat’s unblinking stare mesmerizes.

Three metres away. Two metres. One.

Then the leopard walks _past_ Torrento and into the thick of their little herd, wending between the horses’ legs. The horses jerk and snort, shifting to make way. Merlin soothes them as best he can. When the leopard reaches Merlin, it steps close and rubs its head against his shin. As though it were a common stable cat. Diablo shows the whites of her eyes.

The cat clears their little band and continues on for a few easy paces. Then it stops and cranes to look at them. Expectant.

The knights are all twisted in their saddles to watch the cat. Faces pale with awe.

“What sorcery is this?” Leon murmurs.

“The good kind,” Merlin says, low enough for Arthur not to hear, for he speaks treason. Leon hears, though, eyes sharp when he darts a glance, that Merlin would dare.

Arthur makes another hand motion, this time the one that means _follow_. Or perhaps that’s _stay put_. Merlin always gets those confused. Slowly, the knights wheel their horses about. Arthur nudges Torrento forward, until he’s once more at the front.

The leopard ambles slowly, unconcerned that it’s being stalked. It leads them in the opposite direction than Arthur’s instincts, toward terrain Arthur had rightly dismissed, for it looks nigh impassable. It’s a triple threat, littered with boulders of all sizes, sloped generously, and covered with an insidious layer of loose slate. Yet as they draw closer, they discover some method to the madness—the mouth of a well-trodden path.

It’s hardly the fabled pass, but it’s a start.

Arthur makes the hand signal for _stealth_. They pick their way, quiet and careful, following the cat as it threads along earth hard-packed by years of hooves. Mountain goats, from the size of them. Merlin leans too far over to inspect the tracks, and his stirrup scrapes a nearby boulder.

It makes a harsh noise, like the clanging of a bell.

Ahead, the leopard spooks and disappears. 

Arthur curses and flings himself from Torrento, hurrying on foot to inspect the area where the cat has vanished. When he turns back, his eyes are wide. Then he takes a step and walks headlong into solid rock. The knights hasten to join him. One by one, they also vanish. It’s only as Merlin draws close, almost upon it, that he can see the optical illusion cast by an overhang of stones. It’s not magic, merely nature’s sense of whimsy.

You can’t see the path until you’ve set foot on it.

The secret portal spits them out into a wide pass that cuts cleanly through the mountains, as though some ancient giant sliced with his battle axe. Sheer rock rises like castle walls on either side. High above, on a ledge that juts from rock as smooth as ice, an improbable perch, the snow leopard lounges and surveys them like a benevolent lordling. Mouth open, teeth fierce, it almost seems to smile.

Arthur throws his head back and _laughs_.

* * *

 

The sun is high when they breach the mountains and plunge into the cover of trees once again. The forest here is like none Merlin has ever seen, wild and foreign. Given the dense foliage and the incline, they descend at a careful walk. And so they have time to note the odd goings on in this forest. Leaves and brambles rustle a bit too often for comfort. 

The snow leopard was only the beginning. Other wild beasts, which in any ordinary wood would flee at their jangle, seem to seek out the interlopers. Too many eyes peer from too many trees. From them, Merlin senses no malevolence. Instead, it’s as though the creatures are drawn to them as a curiosity, so long have they been undisturbed by the likes of man.

Around them, the foliage flutters in fanfare, as though they’re on parade. Soon they also spy foxes that flit, squirrels that scold, bunnies that bound. Above, geese honk, filling the sky with their military precision, like knights on drill, as they’re wont to do at this time of year. Yet inexplicably, they fly north, in loose arrowheads that point toward the tower. A fat robin, garbed in Pendragon red, swoops to alight on Diablo’s mane and nestles in for the ride.

“Perhaps they flee some fire,” Gwaine muses, although there’s no sight nor smell of smoke.

Arthur’s eyes find Merlin’s often. But he bites his tongue, as though unwilling to break the spell. The big cat had helped them find their way. It must be a good omen, that the forest rallies behind them. They’re the vanguard of an improbable army.

They continue to collect creatures as they go, an avalanche rolling all the way down the mountain, until the horizon levels once more and they can increase their pace. 

They can’t help but feel it: hope.

Maybe, just maybe, they will succeed in their quest.

* * *

 

Reality comes crashing back at a ridge, where the trees part and they get the first glimpse of what awaits. Arthur stops, and they all stop with him to stare. Before them stretches a tangle of trees. Limbs grasping, nearly gone to gray.

At the sight, Arthur goes gray as well, the futility of what’s to come.

For it’s not a forest. 

It’s a graveyard. 

Spread before them, melting into a mist that obscures its far reaches. There’s no hint of the Dark Tower, but they know it’s there. They can _feel_ it, a chilly dread deep in their bones.

Around them, the forest is still, no longer throbbing with life, as though their animal army has deserted them.

“Rest,” Arthur calls, but he doesn’t lead by example. Although he dismounts, he remains standing at the ridge, overlooking the Impenetrable Forest. Studying it as though it’s some impossible puzzle.

After tending to the horses, Merlin steps to his shoulder. “Perhaps there’s a hidden trail.”

“Not this time. We’ll have to hack our way through.”

“That will take days.”

Arthur raises his voice. “Then we’d best get started.”

They’re slow to move, no one eager to start on the slog ahead. Then they become aware of a sound from the forest behind, the dull thud of hooves that pound the earth. Distant at first, then drawing closer with frightening speed.

A stag explodes from the trees, headed straight toward them. A majestic creature, of a height with Torrento, head heavy with antlers.

“On me,” Arthur calls, already baring his sword. Merlin finds himself pressed on all sides by knights.

The stag bears down.

Merlin grips Arthur’s sword arm. “Arthur,” he says, urgent, and that’s all it takes, to stay the King’s hand. Arthur lowers his weapon, and the knights do the same. They make way for the beast.

When it reaches them, the stag glides past. It doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow. It races toward the ridge and then leaps over it. Floats for a moment in the air, all grace, then lands on the incline below and continues its mad dash toward the Impenetrable Forest.

The stag is but the first, an advance scout. It’s as though Arthur sounded the charge, and his army responded. Other creatures come running, creatures big and small. They stream past for untold minutes, too many beasts to name and some Merlin’s not sure he can name. Like the stag, they launch themselves over the ridge, mighty as a river. 

And then they lay in to the Impenetrable Forest below, a clash of armies. Hooves and claws and teeth rend and rip. Birds tear at vines, yank them away. Slow, steady, the beasts carve an inroad. When Merlin senses what they seek to do, his magic rushes to help. Together, Merlin and the creatures peel back this forest like rotten flesh from a carcass.

The knights stand, stunned.

“This is not…” someone begins.

“…possible,” someone ends.

Nevertheless, it is done. An animal horde ploughs through a forest as though it’s insubstantial as a field of grain. In their wake, they leave a swathe of destruction—fractured trees and upturned earth. 

It’s unmistakably a path.

One that leads to the Dark Tower.

* * *

 

When Arthur half-heartedly suggests that the knights and Merlin stay with the horses, Sir Leon is quick to remind him of the terms of their agreement. 

“To the foot of the tower, I believe it was.”

“So be it,” Arthur says. His smile is sad.

They leave the horses tethered and walk the path carved for them by claws and teeth. Ahead, they can hear the forest groan as the animals demolish and devour. As always, Merlin brings up the rear. Every step he takes topples a tree.

The forest should have taken at least two days to traverse. 

It takes them only two hours.

When they come to it, the edge of this forest is literal. A sharp demarcation, as though someone long ago spooned out a chunk of trees, leaving behind a desert where nothing grows. The wave of animals breaks against this edge, then recedes into the foliage on either side, as if they never were. Before they go, Merlin feels it, final tendrils of energy, everything they could spare. They replenish the strength he’d used to bend a forest to his will.

As they step onto the brittle earth, Merlin can sense the magic gone wrong, forever tainting the soil. The landscape is filled with strange shapes, skeletons that contort oddly, blown down where they stood by some great force. The trees at the forest’s edge have warped, the way they do near an ocean, with its unrelenting water and air.

Morgana has chosen an appropriate stage. For her magic wells from blood and death, and there is plenty of that here, ancient wounds spilled into the soil, staining it rust-red. The sun overhead pulses like an exposed heart. It saps their strength, weighs their steps. Even Merlin feels it, the struggle to keep going. When he was here in spirit, he’d thought his difficulty had been because he was so far from his body. But now, present, standing on his own two feet, it feels somehow worse. Mother earth has forsaken this place.

Ahead, the tower is a dagger to the eye. It hurts to look at. At its foot, an entrance gapes like the mouth on a screaming skull. As they draw close, they become aware of a foul smell that drifts from within. The sickly-sweet stench of death and decay.

Here, Arthur stops. “This is as far as you go.”

Sir Leon grips his forearm. “We’ll be waiting.” _For you_ , he means. 

“Give the witch my regards,” Gwaine says. “Preferably with a fist to that pretty face.”

“Bring her home,” Elyan says.

Percy merely dips his chin.

Arthur looks to Merlin, who remains silent. “No last words?”

“No need.” Merlin bares his teeth. It’s not a smile. It’s a promise, that Arthur will live. For he must. Anything else is unthinkable.

Arthur basks in it for as long as he can, drawing strength from Merlin’s unshakeable faith, one that Merlin has always offered, even before Arthur deserved it. Behind his eyes are things he might say, if there were time, if they were alone. But there’s not and they’re not, so Arthur tears himself away and walks, alone, toward the tower.

He looks so small, there in its shadow. And then he’s gone.

The Dark Tower swallows Arthur whole.


	11. Chapter 11

The knights wait until they’re certain Arthur won’t reappear. Then they spread out in a loose circle, scouting for vantage points where they can keep an eye in all directions. In the past, Morgana had a tendency to collect unsavory allies, and it wouldn’t do for one of these to catch them unawares.

Gwaine putters around at the edges of the Dark Tower until he finds a slim fingernail of shade.

“I’ll take south,” he says. Then he sits against the wall, tips his head back, and closes his eyes.

Merlin doesn’t move from where he was standing when Arthur disappeared. He sinks to the sand, crosses his legs, and stares at the tower. Perhaps if he tries hard enough, he can see within. Earlier, he felt he had the strength to move mountains. Now, he can’t see past a thin veneer of rock. There’s something about this place, this nature-forsaken place. 

The sun bores.

Every so often, Merlin lifts his neckerchief and wipes sweat from his brow, so it won’t drip into his eyes. The knights use the edges of their cloaks as a hood.

No more than ten minutes have passed when Merlin stands and brushes off his bum.

“That’s enough,” he says, decisive. He follows Arthur’s footsteps toward the tower.

Gwaine pops an eye and watches with a gleam. 

From his post to the east, Elyan calls, “Enough of what?”

“A head start.”

Leon intercepts Merlin before he can reach the entrance. “He told us to stay here.”

Merlin dances around him. “Yes, but he didn’t _mean_ it.”

Leon takes his role as first knight very, very seriously. He snags Merlin’s arm. “Our King gave us an order.”

“Our King,” Merlin says, yanking free, “is going to get himself killed. While we sit on our arse.” Merlin stalks to the foot of the tower. When no one follows, he stops, turns back. Jabs a hand at the entrance. “Well?”

The knights gawp, frozen where they stand. Except Gwaine, who beams.

Merlin sighs. “The King told you to protect me. I’m going up the tower. Ergo, you’re going up the tower.”

Gwaine bounds up, cracks his neck. “Can’t argue with Latin.” He’s the first to fall in line behind Merlin. As though this breaks some damn, Percy and Elyan are on his heels, shooting Leon apologetic looks.

Leon is the last to follow.

But follow he does.

* * *

 

The Dark Tower is built for battle—severe lines, sharp corners, tight doorways, narrow slits for windows. Ample grates in the ceiling above to drop boiling tar on the enemy. Walls scorched with ancient flame.

Merlin hurries the knights down a windowless, narrow corridor that’s littered with the bones and gear of the unfortunate. He’d waited outside for as long as he dared, perhaps too long. Walking a fine line, for they must catch up to Arthur at the right time. Too early, and he will send them back. Too late, and he’ll have reached Morgana. She might have— 

No, he won’t think on it. They _will_ catch up to Arthur.

Merlin scans the floor ahead for prints, some hint as to how many might have recently passed this way. Yet there’s a swath of clean along the flagstones. Something—or someone—was dragged along it. Skirts, perhaps, although the sweep seems too heavy for that to be the only culprit. Nevertheless, Merlin follows this sweep of a trail to a steep stairwell that twists sharply to the right, to favor right-handed swordsmen who have the high ground.

“That’s me,” Percy says, and shoulders his way past Merlin. He shifts his sword to his left hand and leads the way. The knights all train with their left, but Percy’s the most adroit.

Gwaine mutters, “Always with the showing off.”

They’ve climbed past only a couple of gaping hallways that lead into darkness when they hear it—the ring of steel. It comes from somewhere above, echoing down the stairwell. The sound jars Merlin’s bones, tenders his teeth, for it’s one he didn’t expect. Not here. 

Morgana wouldn’t need a sword.

They race up until the stairs dead-end into the third level. The hallway here is different, wider, grander, and lit by soft light that spills from an arched door at the end. Beyond are hints of a larger room, perhaps once used for feasts or dancing.

Now, it hosts a dance of a different sort. Arthur surges into view, framed by the archway. He parries a blow of not one but two swords. As they watch, he twirls and pivots, parrying strokes and thrusts from what seems to be a small contingent of heavily armored knights, although their armor is unlike any Merlin has seen. Wrong, somehow.

Merlin shoves forward; Arthur needs them. But before he can barrel down the hallway, Percy throws out an arm. Merlin struggles against the limb, which might as well be the branch of a tree.

“We have to help him.”

“As Perce so elegantly put it,” Gwaine says. “Something’s off.”

“Agreed,” Elyan says. “Those are some ugly little buggers.” He refers to the gargoyles that line the hallway on either side. They’re fierce things, rife with snarl and teeth and claw, designed to intimidate.

“Almost as ugly as Perce,” Gwaine says. “But that’s not what I mean. The witch invited him. Why attack?”

Leon says, “She knew he wouldn’t come alone.”

“He didn’t,” Merlin snaps, they’re wasting time. “I’ll go first.” Before anyone can stop him, he sprints forward.

From the moment he steps on the first flagstone, he knows that the knights’ instincts were correct. The floor shifts oddly under his feet, as though it’s not secured. Some trap springs, and he’s barraged by arrows. They whiz past him from both sides and ricochet off the opposite wall. Thick and sharp, like the bolts from Percy’s crossbow. Likely a similar mechanism, hidden somewhere behind the obscene mouths of the gargoyles. The projectiles are deadly and lightning-quick.

Merlin’s quicker.

His magic makes him so, limbering his limbs, fleeting his feet. It would be too obvious if the bolts bounced off his flesh, so he nudges their trajectory. They shave past him, missing him by a hair here, an eyelash there. Yet the sheer swarm of arrows ensures that some can’t help but graze his skin, his thigh, his shoulder blade, his chest. And thanks to his audience, he must let them.

Through the mayhem, Merlin keeps running, keeps his focus on the path ahead, on the tantalizing glimpses of Arthur. The King is tiring, knocked to his knees.

Merlin runs faster.

He’s closing in on the end of the hallway when an especially ambitious bolt takes a chunk out of his thigh. Merlin stumbles, would have lost his feet if not for his magic. Instead, he staggers the final paces and skids to a stop at the end of the hall, bracing himself on the wall next to the door.

The knights follow at a slower, more sane pace. Unlike him, they’re not fool enough to try to run the gauntlet. Instead, they’ve divested themselves of their sword belts and are dropping them ahead, to trigger the arrows. There’s apparently an endless supply, enough to fell an army.

“Merlin,” Gwaine calls. “Your leg.” Merlin doesn’t look down. Can’t feel it through the buzz in his veins.

“A scratch,” he grits, and runs into the room.

* * *

 

Once, Merlin’s magic helped him juggle as a fool.

Now, it helps him fight like a knight.

He stretches out an arm. A discarded sword—one of many strewn about the room—leaps into his hand. He doesn’t even care, who might see. The combatants don’t notice his grand entrance, so focused are they on their own struggle. Merlin grips the sword with both fists and approaches the knot of bodies. Targets the closest knight and swings with all his magic-enhanced might. 

His stroke goes clean through the knight’s neck.

The knight’s helm bounces and rolls against the wall. 

The body keels over to reveal Arthur standing behind. The King stares, as though Merlin has just done something insane. The dark knights also pause and crane to evaluate this new threat. Merlin makes a show of fumbling his sword. Arthur rolls his eyes, that’s more like it. Then more swords descend, no time to talk now.

Merlin’s presence gives Arthur a much-needed second wind. Back to back, they dispatch the rest of the mysterious knights. Merlin’s magic quickens his reflexes, strengthens his arms. The armored knights never stood a chance. 

When they’re done, when six dark knights sprawl around them, Merlin looks over to find Arthur staring again. 

“You chopped his head off.”

Merlin shrugs. “Element of surprise.”

Arthur keeps staring. “It’s like you were possessed.”

“I got angry?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “You fight worse when you’re angry.”

“Um,” Merlin says, lowering his head. His heart is an anvil. He’s been too obvious. “You’ve found me out. I don’t know how to tell you.” Merlin palms the back of his neck.

“Tell me what?” Arthur’s tone is low, dangerous.

“I’ve been practicing.”

Arthur brays a laugh. “With whom, a madman?”

Merlin bristles. Trust Arthur to critique his form right after Merlin saves his royal arse. Again. “I got the job done, didn’t I?”

Before Arthur can respond, there’s a creak of rusted armor. Around them, the fallen knights twitch. They begin to draw themselves up, first to their knees, then to their feet. The one Merlin had beheaded stands before them, sans head.

“No.” Arthur drops into battle stance. “You didn’t.”

Horrified, Merlin takes a closer look at their opponents. He sees now that they wear a hodgepodge of mismatched, rusted armor, not unlike the gear that they tripped over on the way up here. In fact, it’s exactly like that. Merlin looks to where the helm of the beheaded knight lies against the wall.

It’s empty.

He should have known. No blood.

“New plan,” Merlin says. 

“I make the plans,” Arthur growls.

“Mine’s better.” The dark knights close on them.

“Make it quick. Two words.”

“It’s only one: Run.” Merlin takes his own advice, heading for the archway on the opposite side of the room from where he’d entered.

“Wait,” Arthur calls, already crossing swords with two of the decayed knights. “It’s—”

Merlin runs headlong into the opening, bounces off, and sprawls onto his back.

“—blocked,” Arthur finishes.

Stunned, Merlin peers up at the archway. He can see to the corridor beyond, all the way to the stairwell at the end, with stairs that head up. He scrabbles to his feet and reaches a tentative hand to the opening. It doesn’t _look_ blocked. Yet sure enough, his palm meets an invisible barrier. It thrums and hums beneath his flesh. Warm, as though it’s alive. 

More of Morgana’s handiwork.

But there’s no time for him to study it further, for a shadow falls. Merlin whirls in time to see a wicked glint of a sword descending toward him. He raises his own, but he’s off kilter and late. A beat before the sword cleaves into his skull, a third sword darts from nowhere and stays the blow. On the other end of the sword is a grinning Gwaine.

“You’re welcome,” Gwaine says, and then shoves. The decayed knight reels back, a temporary reprieve.

The knights of Camelot have arrived.

“They’re magic,” Merlin warns.

“I noticed,” Gwaine said, indicating the headless knight going head-to-(not)-head with Elyan.

They’re fighting magic.

Not for the first time.

This battle can’t be won.

Arthur realizes this, for his tactics change. All his life, he’s fought fair. He’s fought with honor and dignity and courtesy. He’s prioritized clean strokes to respectable areas of the body and never kicked a man when he’s down. But that is how you fight men. These aren’t men. 

Merlin’s seen Arthur fight. He’s never seen Arthur fight like this. _This_ is Arthur unleashed, free of the tight hold he usually keeps on himself. He isn’t honorable, he isn’t neat and pretty. He’s dirty and desperate and drenched. This Arthur hacks at necks, at wrists, at ankles. Doesn’t matter if he maims them. All that matter is that he decimates them.

For a while, it works. The dark knights lose heads and swords and feet. They lose these things easily, for the armored knights are slow and clunky. Morgana has ensorcelled armor to fight, but it lacks the will to live. It merely goes through the motions. Nevertheless, it begins to wear the Camelot knights down, slow and steady as water. Knock a dark knight down, it gets back up. Cut off a head, they retrieve it.

“How do we win?” Elyan calls.

“We don’t,” Arthur says.

Yet Merlin knows how they win. He knows _exactly_ how they win. He can see them, the tenuous strands of magic that knit the armor together. With a single wave of his hand, he could sever them like the cobwebs that bedeck every inch of this forsaken tower. Or he could turn his magic on Morgana’s barrier, punch through it like parchment.

But something stays his hand. Something Gwaine had said, that there’s no reason for Morgana to strew obstacles. To cull the herd, perhaps. Maybe she’d get lucky and kill Arthur, or even Emrys. Yet Merlin can think of another reason, a method behind her madness. It’s subtle. So very _Morgana_. 

Morgana wants Merlin to use his magic.

She _dares_ him to.

It’s one thing for Merlin to use minute traces of magic to divert a few arrows. It’s an entirely different thing to break an enchantment. Morgana would feel it. She would sense him, just as she’d sensed him using his magic to commandeer the body of an owl. She might even be able to sense _who_ he is, might come to understand that it’s Merlin who opposes her. If nothing else, she would know that Emrys is here. That Emrys comes.

And Merlin doesn’t want to give her that advantage, not if he can help it. He’s counting on it, his element of surprise. Somehow, he must get them through that door without using his magic.

Merlin scans the battle, sees how the knights have spread out, releasing the pressure from Arthur, giving themselves space to move, to experiment. Arthur is on the far side of the room.

“Sire,” Merlin calls, but his voice is lost in the clamor. Arthur’s hacking at a knight he has backed into a corner. He doesn’t hear, can’t see Merlin windmill for his attention. Instead, Merlin’s antics draw the attention of one of the dark knights, who’s just stumbled from the thick of the fray, propelled by Percy’s boot.

The dark knight ambles and shambles toward him.

Merlin raises his sword, wary. He knows he should step away from the arch, avoid being backed against a wall. But he’s loathe to lose his proximity to the portal, their only way out. And so he plants his feet, grips his sword, and prepares to defend.

The knight’s first strike vibrates the bones in Merlin’s arm. Merlin parries as best he can, using the form Arthur has taught him, no longer the fiend he’d been earlier. Still, even without his magic, he should be able to hold his own, at least for a while. 

They settle into the rhythm of it. The dark knight doesn’t learn, doesn’t deviate. The creature strikes here and there, here and there, steady and heavy, a pendulum. At first, Merlin counters the blows easily, so obvious. But when the knight doesn’t deviate and doesn’t deviate, it wears Merlin down, blow by bruising blow. His muscles aren’t made of metal. And he’s now acutely aware of his injured leg, a rising flame.

The dark knight is all Merlin can see. Can’t see past to his comrades beyond, can’t know if they see him, if they will come. If they can.

Slice and hack, slice and hack, and then Merlin’s bad leg _slips_. 

The dark knight _deviates_. It pins Merlin’s sword to the wall. The armored creature steps forward and leans. Rough, rusted edges eat into Merlin’s flesh. Behind him, the barrier buzzes hot and angry at his back. He’s pressed on all sides by Morgana and her magic. 

Without magic of his own, Merlin isn’t enough.

Never enough.

And then Arthur surges from nowhere, leaping onto the back of the dark knight. He wrenches at the creature’s helm, yanks it right off. Tosses it aside. The dark knight flails with his sword, ineffective, and Arthur bats it away with his own. Then he kicks out at its chest and sends it staggering.

Arthur stands before him, his body a shield, and there’s no time to explain. Merlin wraps his fingers around Arthur’s sword hand, and, with the last of his failing strength, he thrusts Excalibur toward the archway. The dark knight lunges for them, but it’s too late. As they pass through the barrier, Merlin feels a massive jolt, as though he’s been struck by lightning. It knocks the wind from him, curdles his blood.

But it doesn’t prevent them from falling through the doorway. They land in an ungraceful heap. Arthur’s on his feet in an instant, sword at the ready, facing off against the decayed knight. Yet the creature takes no step. It merely stands silhouetted in the doorway, still as a statue. Perhaps the barrier holds him back. 

Merlin drags himself to the wall and props against it, trying to ward off this strange feeling that radiates from his chest. He can’t breathe. He’s gone clammy, can’t feel his extremities.

“Merlin,” Arthur says in a strange tone, “why is my sword glowing?” Extended before him, Excalibur’s blade radiates a feeble green.

Merlin tries to answer but can’t. All he can do is shake his head, wind knocked out.

“Right,” Arthur says. “Another Morgana mystery.” When the decayed knight still doesn’t move, Arthur lowers his glowing sword and abandons his battle stance. “The knights are on their own. We can’t dally.” He sheaths his sword and strides past Merlin, headed for the stairwell.

Merlin doesn’t move.

Arthur snaps his fingers at him, like he’s a dog. “Let’s go, Merlin. This isn’t nap time. We can rest later.”

Merlin doesn’t move.

Arthur reaches the stairs, has already pattered up a few when he stops and looks back. “Merlin?”

This time, he looks at Merlin. Really _looks_ at him. Merlin tries to say something, anything, but words don’t come out. Something warm does, dribbling over his lips.

Arthur goes still, as though impaled through the gut.

Then he’s back at Merlin’s side, crouched low. Feeling his limbs, frantic. Merlin winces when Arthur’s fingers find the gouge in his leg. But that’s not it. That wouldn’t cause blood to bubble within. Arthur sucks in a breath when he gets to Merlin’s torso. The bottom half of Merlin’s tunic is blotched a darker red. Merlin watches Arthur’s face as he rucks up the cloth and inspects what lies beneath. 

“How—?” Arthur’s eyes slide back toward the decayed knight, bracketed in the doorway. 

It still hasn’t moved.

But something else moves. A glob of red drips from the tip of the knight’s sword and splatters to the floor. What’s more, the rusted blade is dipped in red, halfway up its length. Merlin sees all this, understands what it means. Turns his gaze back to Arthur’s face. Watches awareness spread.

That shock Merlin had felt—it was a sword. One that had impaled him in the lower gut, about an inch from his spine, stringing through his small intestine. Merlin doesn’t know how he knows this. He just does. He can see within, to the blood that leaks, a crimson cloud.

“It’s fine,” Arthur says. He can't quite meet Merlin's eyes. “A day or two off, and you’ll be back to nattering on.”

Then he tears Merlin’s trousers to shreds below the knee. They’re ripped by arrows already, might as well. He uses the resulting cloth to bind Merlin’s wound as best he can. Yet they both know it—there’s not enough cloth in the world that could make this better. This type of wound doesn’t get better.

Merlin tries to smile. His grimace serves only to unnerve Arthur further, blood on his teeth.

There are so many things Merlin wants to say. That he _needs_ to say to Arthur. Watching him now, his life force draining away, Merlin can’t remember, why he never said them before. His reasons seem so trite now, inconsequential as mist.

Before he can say anything, Arthur stumbles to his feet. 

“Maybe a nap is in order,” he chokes. “Rest. I’ll. I have to…” He doesn’t seem to know, how to finish. He’s torn. So close to Guinevere. He can’t stop now. “I have to.” With that final plea, Arthur turns for the stairs.

Merlin’s mouth works. "Ar...thur."

Arthur stops, for Merlin never uses his name in vain. Merlin has to tell him. Has to tell him _now_. There’s no more time.

“It’s me,” he says. “I’m a…” 

Words won’t come.

“Don’t,” Arthur says. “Save your strength.” 

But Merlin can’t. He can’t save anything, not anymore. 

“I’m a…” He gasps for air. Feels a lonely tear slip down his cheek. Looks at Arthur, eyes blurred. He’s helpless. Nothing _works_.

Arthur’s eyes are made of glass. He spreads his hands and whispers, “I _have_ to. I’m…” But he won’t say it, can’t say that he’s sorry. Instead, he turns and jogs for the stairs.

“Em…rys.” 

It’s nothing but a whisper. Mush in Merlin’s mouth, garbled, no way Arthur could have understood. But Arthur does. Arthur _always_ does. 

Arthur freezes. Pivots back. “What?”

“I’m…Emrys.”

Arthur looks like he will laugh. He looks like he will cry. At long last, he says, “First Mordred, now you.” Then, almost to himself, “Why is everyone so keen to die for me?”

“You’re…” Merlin grimaces at something sharp. “You.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, gentle now. As though he speaks to a child. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t approach. “You’re not a sorcerer. You failed that test, remember? And you were quite angry that I doubted you.”

More tears spill down Merlin’s cheeks. He can’t say it with words, so he says it with his eyes. They shine with fervor. His limbs seize, sporadic, fingers grasp.

“No,” Arthur says. He _refuses_. “Why would you even—?”

“Here,” Merlin rasps. Arthur’s always preferred actions to words. So Merlin will show him. He has barely enough strength to lift his arm. Points a quaking palm toward a gutted, rotten torch that clings to the wall. Wills it to flicker to light. Wills it to show Arthur, what he is. What he can do.

Except. 

It doesn’t.

Not so much as a spark.

Arthur kneels, takes Merlin’s hand, closes his fingers. He places another hand on Merlin’s brow, with fingers that feel made of ice. Distantly, Merlin knows that the ice isn't coming from Arthur.

“You’re in shock,” Arthur says.

Perhaps his magic is also in shock.

Merlin shakes his head. He has to make Arthur _understand_. But the movement makes him so dizzy he lists to one side. Arthur steadies him. 

“Take me to…her.” Surely Arthur must see it, the wisdom.

“Rest,” Arthur repeats.

“I’ll rest when I’m…dead.”

The joke falls flat. Arthur gives a sickly grin and grips his shoulder. Rough. A goodbye. Then he pushes up and away. Arthur’s walking away. Merlin’s losing him. He’s going to lose him. This can’t happen. This is not the way it happens. This is not the way their story goes. Not like this, with Merlin lying and dying in some dank hallway, another forgotten skeleton with a scrap of rotted red around its neck.

And so Merlin does the only thing he can. 

He flops himself over. Topples himself to stone. Nearly faints from it. Blood and bile rise in his throat, threatening to choke. When the darkness clears, he crawls. He’ll crawl to the apex of a Dark Tower, if that’s what it takes. Claws himself forward on his belly, like a worm. Crawls toward Arthur.

“Stop,” Arthur says.

But Merlin doesn’t stop, keeps dragging the skin of his belly against stone. Blood smears in his wake. His legs dangle, useless.

“Stop it.” Arthur’s voice is harsh and close. Boots step into Merlin’s eyeline. “You _idiot_. Just…”

There’s an ominous pause, and then Arthur’s hands haul up under Merlin’s armpits.

Merlin blacks out.

Precious moments lost until he forces the darkness away, not by magic, just sheer will. He can’t abandon Arthur, not now. When he comes back, he’s draped over Arthur, one arm slung over Arthur’s armor. Merlin focuses on his feet. He’s aware of the fact that, with every step, his weight weakens, slows Arthur.

“You could at least pretend to walk,” Arthur grumbles.

Merlin’s laugh is a moan.

They make it to the stairs, which might as well be cliffs. With a grunt, Arthur hoists Merlin into his arms. The hauberk is cool and unforgiving beneath Merlin’s cheek. From there, it’s a short climb, up a dark stairwell where no light reaches. Arthur feels his way blind, bumping Merlin’s head and feet against the walls. (Merlin hardly feels it.) Bones slide and crunch underfoot. Cobwebs tickle and cling. The stair vomits them out into a short hall that dead ends in a set of massive oak doors. One is slightly ajar, a tantalizing sliver of light beyond.

This is it. 

Merlin croaks a word. It’s supposed to be _wait_ , but that’s not what it sounds like. It’s more a gasp. Still, Arthur stops. He waits. Merlin reaches a trembling hand and brushes cobwebs from Arthur’s hair. He takes his time, gets them all. And for once, Arthur doesn’t reprimand Merlin for being a girl. Doesn’t hurry him along. He’s patient under Merlin’s ministrations. He understands, what Merlin seeks to do.

A final service for his king.

When Arthur faces Morgana, he’ll face her looking like the golden King he is.

Too soon, Merlin is finished. His hand falls away, limp. He sighs.

Arthur’s eyes are _agony_. His lips part, but he says nothing. Merely steels himself, takes the remaining steps, and kicks open the door.

 


	12. Chapter 12

They step into infinity. 

An endless room, its boundaries swathed in shadow thick as tar, a ceiling that soars away. High above, the weak light of a dying sun filters through a halo of stained glass, bleaching the floor at their feet an indistinct, jagged pattern. Once beautiful, the window has withered, losing panes like teeth, the remainder fogged with grime, their color faded.

The room is empty.

Devoid even of bones. 

Strange, for the skeletons here should be as thick as ants on a corpse in the woods. Merlin can feel it—this is where it happened, the source of the power that scorched the earth. It’s like slipping into the waters of a frozen lake.

Arthur navigates the uneven floor to a pillar, one of many that stand sentry along each wall. There, he lays Merlin to rest, propping him against it, holding a shoulder steady until he’s sure his servant won’t tip. The vantage affords Merlin a wide view of the room, a front row seat to Arthur’s doom.

“Find…her,” Merlin whispers. Arthur’s lips tremble, an almost smile. His fingertips, rough with callous, brush the pulse point on Merlin’s neck. And then Arthur’s cloak billows into shadow. Excalibur before him, lighting his way.

Silence settles like ash, marred only by Arthur’s soft footfalls as he scours the depths of the room. Around Merlin, darkness _writhes_ , as though it’s alive. Maybe it’s the fever ravaging his flesh, but Merlin spies strange shapes, flickering at the edges of his vision. The dead coagulate here, at the apex of this Dark Tower. They’ve never come so close before, so close he can feel them like moth’s wings on his skin. Or perhaps it’s he who’s come close to them. He’s never been closer to death.

After a while, Merlin loses Arthur to the dark. The only thing he can near is the breath laboring in his chest. He focuses on breathing in and out. In and out. Until he's distracted by a noise nearby. Too near. The sneak and creak of the door. From the hallway beyond, the shuffle of too many feet, striving for quiet. It would be just like Morgana to spring her allies at last. Magic is mighty, but it’s not infallible. Merlin knows better than anyone—everything can come undone with a single slip of a sword.

Excalibur swirls through the darkness, angling toward this new threat. It bobs drunkenly as Arthur jogs back toward Merlin. Ready to defend against whatever Morgana can throw at them. Shapes slink into the room. Merlin catches a gleam of silver, the hiss of swords. Merlin’s fist sags into a claw, a dying spider. There’s nothing he can do. Not for Arthur, not for himself.

Arthur won’t make it in time, not for Merlin.

Then a wry voice. “Thanks for nothing back there.”

Arthur skids to a stop. “Gwaine.” Relief floods. Behind him come Leon and Elyan and Percy.

Elyan frowns at Excalibur. “Your sword.” Idly, Merlin wonders if there’s a technical blacksmith term for _glowing_.

Arthur waves him silent, no time. “How did you—?”

“It’s because I’m amazing,” Gwaine says. “I singlehandedly dispatched the creatures with my superior—”

“They collapsed,” Leon says flatly. Arthur’s expression also collapses,for he understands the connotations as well as Merlin.

Morgana _wants_ them here. 

As if to confirm, the room’s massive door slams of its own accord. Then it bolts, sealing them in this room, the one that will likely become their tomb. Percy and Elyan rush to test their strength against it. After moments of strain, they give up, shake their heads. 

The knights stand round the circle on the floor, a final council. Even Merlin, or at least the tips of his boots. They bask in it, the light that pushes back the shadow, that reflects the conviction in each others’ eyes. Whatever they must face, they do not face it alone.

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, nudging his boot. “You picked a poor time for a lie-in.”

Before Arthur can speak on Merlin’s behalf, something stirs in the far side of the room, the side Arthur has not yet searched, where the darkness is complete. The knights whip toward the sound, weapons at the ready. 

All except Gwaine, who crouches to tease Merlin about his “just a scratch” leg. But the knight’s jolly melts when he sees the serious in Merlin’s face. His eyes go sharp, searching, until he finds what he seeks—a rend in cloth.

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwaine breathes. He dips a hand under Merlin’s tunic, waggles a finger through the hole. “What have I told you about avoiding the sharp end?”

Merlin wants to quip something about the clumsiness of Kings, this is Arthur’s fault, but he can’t. Can only _shine_ at Gwaine, eyes wet, the shadow of a smile. Gwaine grins back, fierce, and grips Merlin’s limp hand. Together, they look beyond, past Arthur and the knights, who stand braced against the dark.

“Show yourself,” Arthur booms.

A beat, then a tremulous voice. “I can’t.”

That voice, they know it. At the sound, Arthur throws caution to the wind. He _runs_. The knights follow. Even Gwaine, giving Merlin’s hand a final squeeze.

As Merlin’s eyes adjust to the gloom, he makes out a shape behind a pillar. From the looks of it, Gwen crouches and cringes behind a column. Metal scrapes as she moves, limbs stirring, sluggish, as though waking from sleep. Her arms circle halfway around the pillar, wrists bound by manacles of iron.

Her arms are bare. As are her shoulders. And her—

“Hold,” Arthur barks, already unslinging his cloak. The knights do as he says, stopping at a careful distance. All except Elyan, who also unclasps his cloak and holds it out, eyes turned away. Grateful, Arthur snatches it and hurries to kneel at Gwen’s side.  

Softer, he says, “I’m here.” He shields Gwen with his body, bundles the Pendragon crest around her, nice and tight, as though it can ward her from further harm. Would have given her the tunic off his back if he could have shimmied out of his chain mail without Merlin’s help.

Gwen sobs a word: “Arthur.” Her fingers flare for his face, chains clink, she can’t reach. He stills and draws close to let her touch his cheek, assure herself that he’s real.

“I’m here,” he says again. He can’t make any promises, doesn’t assure her that she’s safe. “I’m here,” he repeats, the only truth he can speak. Then he grips Gwen’s hands, pulling looped chain taut between them. “Don’t move,” he says, urgent.

Gwen hides her face.

Arthur coils up, sword raised, and positions himself to strike. He’ll need to be quick, precise. Gwen will need to be brave. He is and she is and sparks fly, sword pitted to stone.

“Again,” Arthur says, and winds up. The chains fray, but they do not break. “I’ve almost got it, Gwen. Just hold on.” 

He raises his sword. Yet this time, Excalibur does not descend. Instead, it flies backward. Some force has plucked it from his grasp, propels it through the darkness. It hovers in the air, some paces away, deeper in the gloom.

Its weak light illuminates a hulking, contorted shape, the stuff of nightmares. Near this apparition, two eyes glint golden, like the flash of a predator in the woods at night as you sit around a fire. 

All down the walls, torches blaze. Brightness explodes behind Merlin’s eyes, he must turn his head away, sensitive. When he recovers, turns back, he sees. The room is finite after all, much smaller than it looked, than it felt. Roughly the size of the throne room in Camelot.

Gwen is shackled to a pillar near the foot of a raised dais. On it is an obscene sculpture—the missing bones. This goes beyond disturbing the dead. It _profanes_ them. For the bones have been amassed, cobbled together into a contraption that resembles a monstrous throne. Some of the skeletons still wear scraps of cloth, an occasional boot, mouths that scream. Haphazard, held together by careless magic.

Upon this abomination sits Morgana, a Dark Queen. Bare feet drawn up beneath her as though she’s a child. Since they last saw her, she’s made some attempt to clean herself up. Fresh clothing. Blackened hair to obscure the gray. On her head she wears a sliver of a crown. Gwen’s.

Merlin feels far away. Too far. It’s a struggle, to keep himself in this room. The knights (minus Gwaine, who’s disappeared) space themselves out like they've trained, in the face of their enemy. They disperse to columns on either side of the room. Near enough to intervene. Close enough to duck for shelter. Arthur, though, he doesn’t move. Remains planted between Morgana and Gwen.

Morgana ignores all of them. Serene, she inspects Excalibur, which hovers in the air at her right hand, its hilt pointed down, within arm’s length. She reaches out but doesn’t touch.

“Your sword,” she says, intrigued, “is enchanted.”

“You would know,” Arthur growls.

Morgana looks at him, sharp. “It was not I who enchanted it. I merely revealed it.”

 _The barrier_ , Merlin thinks, but it’s another moment before he understands why he thinks this, his thoughts fuzzy with pain. It served more than one purpose—to deter and to expose.

Desperate, Merlin's fingernails dig into stone. If his magic worked, this would be the moment. Send Excalibur streaking like a spear, right through Morgana’s heart. He’d slung the sword on Arthur himself, in hopes that one of them might have a chance to use it against her. But although Merlin wills it, he has not the strength. He can no longer lift his arm.

Morgana flicks, and the moment is lost. Excalibur flies back and clings to the wall behind her as if nailed in place. Its glow illuminates shadows that cower in a corner. And that's when they see it—a corpse lashed to the wall, spread eagle.

In the human body, there are 206 bones. Merlin shudders to think how Gaius knew this, wouldn’t want to have been the one who counted. This body looks as though it’s broken most of them. Arms wrenched from sockets, legs in pieces, face shattered. And everywhere bloated and purpled. If not for the armor, Merlin wouldn’t have recognized him. His chain mail is all that holds him together.

It’s Mordred. 

Mordred, whom Arthur declined to speak of during their journey, though Merlin could tell by his oft-distant gaze that the King worried about him, sought him out on the path ahead. Likely Arthur assumed they’d outpaced him, either through the mountain pass or the Impenetrable Forest.

Yet here he is, displayed like a hunter’s bounty.

Or a warning.

“Release them,” Arthur commands with that voice of his, the one you can’t help but obey. Merlin knows what it’s like to be on the other end of that glare, sharper than the sun.

Morgana’s lip curls. “Not until I have Emrys.”

Arthur frowns, eyes sliding anew to Mordred. “But—”

“That _boy_ is no more Emrys than I am.”

 _Is_ , she says, which means there’s hope. Merlin reaches out, tries to feel him. He can’t feel his own toes.

Morgana rolls her spine, sinuous and feline. She’s been here a while, they’ve kept her waiting. Then she unfurls from her throne, limps down the steps. Along with Gwen’s crown, she wears Gwen’s silk dress, her fanciest from a feast. It hangs loose and odd, a little girl playing dress up. Yet despite Morgana’s wasted deformity, she still carries herself like royalty. Merlin can see in her the girl they once knew, sauntering into a banquet, dressed to kill.

Arthur pivots, keeps himself between her and Gwen.

Morgana bypasses him, drifts across the floor, skirt dragging, hem filthy. Unafraid, she steps into the center of the rough ring of knights, taunting them. As she passes, she nods at Leon and Elyan, frowns at Percy, doesn’t know him. She pointedly ignores the swords that point. Her path seems to take her toward the circle of light. When she reaches it, she edges the long way around, as though she’s loathe for the light to touch. She follows its rim until it intersects with Merlin’s boot. 

Then she stands above him. Merlin holds her gaze with as much fury as he can muster. He trembles with it, the effort of holding up his head. He feels as intimidating as a mewling newborn pup.

“I asked for Emrys,” Morgana says to Merlin, yet she speaks to the room. “Instead, you’ve brought me a few peasants that play at knights and…” A dainty, dirty foot peeks from beneath her skirts. It nudges Merlin’s side, a toe in his wound. Merlin gargles a scream. “…a half-dead servant.”

“Claws off,” Gwaine roars, emerging from behind a pillar, slashing down. Inches from Morgana’s hair, his sword freezes. Gwaine jerks with it, the sudden arrest in motion, as though he’s slammed into something unyielding. Morgana jerks, and his sword flies up and clatters near Excalibur against the back wall, stuck fast.

Gwaine burns bright. He often burns too fast.

“No,” Merlin whispers, grasping, for he knows what comes next. He knows _exactly_ what comes next.

Morgana never even looks at Gwaine. She makes a fist, and the knight crumples. Like the owl. Like Mordred. Gwaine goes slack, then collapses where he stands. He makes not a sound.

Merlin’s sick, dribbling down his shirt.

“Stop this,” Arthur says.

“Not until he sings for his supper.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Gwaine grits, struggling for breath. 

Morgana clenches and rips a scream right out of him. Small mercies, Gwaine’s eyes have rolled back, eyelids flutter. His cloak splays wide, hiding the worst of it. Leaving them to imagine the worst.

Leather creaks as Percy comes. Morgana twitches, and his sword flies up and affixes near Excalibur, another trophy to bedeck the wall.

Percy, though, he doesn’t stop. A juggernaut.

“Stand down,” Arthur commands. Percy complies, but only just. Stops a few feet from Morgana and glares.

“Men and their swords,” Morgana tuts to Merlin. Her eyes are bright, unblinking. “Take them away, and what’s left?”

“Come find out,” Percy rumbles. Yet even he sounds shaken, at what happened to Gwaine.

Morgana ignores him. Her eyes hold Merlin’s. They almost mesmerize. She kneels before him, wipes his mouth with an edge of her dress. “You, though. You don’t use a sword.”

The feel of her touching him makes maggots writhe in his gut. Merlin wants to lash out, wants to snarl something grand and stupid like _I don’t need one_. For it’s too late, he’s already got one foot in the grave, what does it matter if he spills it now, this final secret? What can she do? Kill him? He’s already dead. Death has made him invincible. And foolish. 

He bites his cheek, fresh blood on his tongue.

“Morgana,” Arthur cuts in, saving Merlin from himself. “Emrys refused to come forward.”

Morgana still doesn’t turn away from Merlin. He fights not to wither under it, her burn-bright gaze. “He always was a coward.”

“You’re wrong,” someone says, and that someone is Gwen. She’s regained her clothes and composure. She’s pushed herself to her feet. Her voice rings strong. “He came for me.”

Morgana turns, eyes narrow. “And I stopped him. Which makes him a coward and a failure.”

“He _is_ a coward,” Arthur says, and Merlin twinges. “He did not come to the aid of his King. So it was not in my power to grant your wish. But I’ve brought you something else. Something I trust you’ll find equally as valuable.”

Morgana snorts. “I doubt that.” But her attention is diverted, for she abandons Merlin at last. She works back to her feet and hobbles toward her cobble of a throne. Merlin can breathe again, some weight lifted. His stomach settles. Tries not to look over at Gwaine, a crimson puddle on the floor.

Morgana makes a point to shuffle by Percy, too close. She nods to Elyan, who stands at Gwen’s side. With a sly smile, she blows a kiss to Leon and his sword. Then she turns her back on him, _daring_ him. Leon, though, he’s older and wiser. And Arthur has spoken.

Arthur waits until she climbs the stairs, arranges herself back on what passes for her throne. Then he stands before her, straight and tall, a supplicant. “I’ve come to offer something else you want.”

Morgana throws back her head and laughs. Her cackle echoes. It _aches_ , how like Arthur she is. How unlike Arthur she is. “This isn’t one of your beloved peace treaties.”

“It can be,” Arthur says, a simple fact.

Within Merlin, something sparks, warm in his chest, the first glimmer of hope in this miasma. Really, he should have known Arthur would come into this with an alternate plan. Even without Emrys, he came. Even though without Emrys, he has no bargaining chip.He’s not one to lay his head on the executioner’s block and hope that it will be the _blade_ that splits.

“Let’s hear it then. What do you offer?”

“Camelot,” Arthur says. “And your rightful place in it.”

At that, Morgana sits back. Her eyes dull. Even Merlin feels it, the anticlimax. Arthur’s better than this. Idly, Merlin’s fingers scratch at the wound on his thigh. It _itches_. 

Morgana says, “I can take Camelot whenever I choose.”

“You can capture its keep,” Arthur says. “But you can never capture its heart.”

Then Arthur proceeds to do what he does best. He’s always been a genius at figuring out what might sway the terms of an engagement. Knows exactly what to say that might turn someone to his side. It’s because he doesn’t have a side, not really. He merely susses out what the other person wants and finds a way to give it to them. It’s that simple. And it’s that hard. It requires a deep understanding of his enemy. It requires him to listen and watch, see how they react to what he says. To measure not only their words, but their intent. To look past their every attempt to bait him. It requires him to ignore the fact that his very wife stands, naked and broken, a bit to his right.

As Arthur lays out the terms of his proposal, Merlin’s leg starts to itch in earnest, almost a fire. He looks down in time to see the wound contort, the edges knitting together and shut. Beneath is a glint of pure, white light. Startled, he turns his sight within. Merlin has been so focused on Arthur that he almost didn’t notice, what’s going on inside himself. 

Light wriggles in his intestines. Unbeknownst to Merlin, some of the water sprite’s sisters had hitched a ride, perhaps a parting gift. Already, Merlin can breathe easier. His eyesight sharpens. Energy returns. He can clench a fist.

 _Stop_ , he tells them. They stop. They listen. _Not me_ , he says. _Help him_. He looks to Mordred, hanging in the shadows.

They hesitate. They can’t speak, but they feel sharp, as though they don’t like his idea, not one iota. They’re here for him and him alone.

 _He needs you more_ , Merlin urges. _We can’t let him die._

Reluctant, the lights wriggle down Merlin’s legs and out the soles of his feet. They sink into stone, swimming through it slowly, as though it’s water.

Merlin lifts his head, focuses anew on the conversation. He’s still bleeding and dizzy and sore, but it’s manageable now. The danger has passed. He’ll live. If Morgana doesn’t kill him first.

Arthur is saying, “—a pardon. Your old chambers. And half of Camelot as your birthright. Together, we’ll work on rebuilding trust with our people.”

Merlin sucks in a breath. After everything Morgana has done, how can Arthur even conceive of forgiving her? Yet this is what Arthur has always done better than any King in memory. He’s prepared to give up anything for the good of his people. For those he loves. 

It’s surprised Morgana as well. She rises from her throne, descends the steps anew to stand before him. Close enough that he could strike. Yet she says nothing, gives no hint of what she’s thinking.

Arthur senses the opening. His voice goes gentle. He speaks to her no longer as a statesmen, as a leader. He speaks to her as family.

“We can start over, Morgana. It’s not too late. It will never be too late. You’re family. Family is more important than anything. We can make amends. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Morgana looks so small, always in the shadow of her brother. Her face tips up at him, defiant. “I don’t want half. I want all.” The fact that she tests him, pushes at his limits, it’s a good sign. It’s an opening.

“Done,” Arthur says, so quickly that Merlin’s head spins. “I’ll abdicate. Gwen and I can leave Camelot and never return. Or if you’d prefer, I can stay on as an advisor, to ease the transition. I can convince the people. You have much to atone for, but the people of Camelot are merciful. They’ll forgive you if you let them. With time, they will come to accept you.”

Morgana honest-to-god wavers. “I don’t want help from you. I want you dead.”

Arthur swallows. Morgana pulls no punches. He wouldn’t expect her to.

“Then so be it. Kill me. But let them live. It’s all I ask.”

 _Them_ , Merlin thinks.

Morgana scales her steps slowly, deep in thought. “I’ve gotten many offers from men. They’re always the same. Here, I’ll give you my power. Kill me, so I can become a martyr. And you. You’ve parlayed with the highest and lowest of the land. You’ve never parlayed with the likes of me. You don’t yet understand. What I want, I take. I don’t need an offer from a man.”

With that, all that Arthur has worked for—years of sweat and blood and yes, even tears—it slips away. Not only this peace treaty, but all of them. He clutches at a ledge, fingers slick with sweat. He’s made peace with kings and queens, with warlords and slavers and smugglers. But there’s something impossible about making peace with family.

“My answer,” she says, “is no.”

Arthur’s bewildered. “To which part?”

“All of it. You didn’t bring me Emrys. So there’s no bargain.” 

Merlin shifts, testing his legs. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, they’ll hold. He can stay silent no longer, must buy Mordred more time. There’s no change yet that Merlin can see, although it’s possible that the bruises beneath Mordred’s flesh aren’t quite as flowered. Or perhaps that’s a trick of shadow.

Merlin lifts his head. “How do you know?” His voice rasps.

Eyes snap to him, all of the eyes, they’d forgotten he’s there. Morgana straightens on her throne.

“Merlin,” Arthur says. “Shut up.”

“It’s you who will be silent, brother.” Morgana spits _brother_ like the spell for boils. “Let the fool have his last words.”

They watch as Merlin struggles to his knees. To one foot, then the other. He braces himself against the pillar and sways until he finds his sea legs. 

Merlin rallies. “How do you know we have not brought Emrys?”

“Do you have something to confess?”

“I do.”

“Merlin,” Arthur warns. He’s not going to like what Merlin is about to say.

Merlin takes shaky steps toward the throne, a painstaking pilgrimage. Arthur watches, incredulous, for with his wound, you don’t walk. He takes his time, struggles with it, lets Morgana think this is his dying gasp. Arthur shifts as though to meet him halfway. Merlin placates with a palm. _Trust me_ , he says, and Arthur subsides because Arthur does trust him. Though after this is over, he might never trust Merlin again.

Morgana contains herself until Merlin takes his place by Arthur’s side. “Well?”

“I know who Emrys is.”

“I _knew_ it. I knew that fossil of a physician must have told you. And now you will tell me. Or you will watch your precious King die.” Morgana lifts a finger. Arthur goes taut and strained, hung by an invisible rope. He rises on his toes to find relief, claws at his throat. 

The knights surge, but Merlin stays them with a chop of his hand. He never takes his eyes off Morgana.

“Emrys isn’t a man.”

Morgana’s glee fades. “What nonsense is this?” Arthur chokes.

“Emrys is no man,” Merlin repeats, sure. “He’s a myth.”

Morgana scoffs. “You are a fool. I’ve _seen_ him.”

“Old, dodgy, overgrown beard?” Morgana stares, pale, as Merlin spins a finger near his temple. “He’s soft in the head. Of course he fancies himself Emrys. _Everyone_ wants to be Emrys.”

Abruptly, Morgana releases Arthur, who coughs and bends double. She ignores him, intent on Merlin and these impossible things that he’s saying.

“But the druids—”

“The druids are wrong. They mean well but they are…misguided.”

“There are prophecies—”

“Prophecies are a stab in the dark. For every one that comes true, there are hundreds that don’t.” Merlin knows this better than anyone. Just look at Mordred. Or don’t. Don’t look at Mordred. Not yet.

“I’ve spent years chasing Emrys.”

“You’ve chased a shadow. He doesn’t exist. It’s why Arthur couldn’t find him. Emrys isn’t the name of a man. It’s a title. Like a King. It’s a mantle someone can assume if they so choose.”

Beside him, Arthur stiffens. He’s taken aback, shocked even, at the words coming from Merlin’s mouth. At the knowledge that these thoughts are not spur of the moment. He’s not pulling them out of his skinny arse. These are thoughts that Merlin has mulled over, has wrestled with. And yet Merlin chose not to share. He’d kept his own council.

He as good as lied. These are the things Arthur is thinking, and more. Merlin can’t look at him. Can’t see the betrayal. Can’t let it distract him, Arthur’s hurt.

For Merlin sees that he’s captured it, Morgana's imagination, her undivided attention. She doesn’t want to believe him. But part of her does. Part of her _hopes_. He’s dangled a gem of an idea that’s too pretty to be ignored. That the reason she’s been unable to find Emrys is because he doesn’t exist.

Merlin continues, “Emrys is a story that druids tell their children, something they should aspire to be. Just look at Mordred. He believes in bringing magic back to the land, so fervently that he’s risked becoming a knight of Camelot. He’s close to Arthur. He’s earned the King’s trust, won the King’s heart. Has his ear. What do you think will happen now, if Mordred sacrifices his life for Arthur’s? Arthur will change the law about magic. How can he not? Even if you kill Mordred, he’s fulfilled a higher purpose. He’s changed the world.”

“Unless I kill them both. Then I will be Queen. My word will be law. I’ll shove magic down their ungrateful throats.” She fairly rants now, caught up in this fantasy. “I will be Emrys.”

“Kill them, kill me, Emrys will live on. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but Emrys will still be your doom. You’ll never escape him. You’ll always be on your guard, will wonder who might next assume the mantle. Until the day you die. Why? Emrys is an idea. More than that, it’s an _ideal_. You can’t kill an ideal. Emrys is immortal.”

Merlin can see, just how much he’s getting under Morgana’s skin, in her head. He’s never accepted the fact that he’s some mystical savior. To him, this theory makes as much sense as any other.

He thinks this right until the point when Morgana starts to giggle, then chuckle, then full-out guffaw. She clutches at herself. Laughs and laughs. Brays, even.

“You,” she gasps. She laughs hard. She laughs long.

“You,” she gasps. Laughs harder, longer.

She sobers, shedding laughter like a skin. “You,” she says, “almost had me. Like last time.” She affects a snotty tone. “I’m your friend, Morgana. You must be thirsty, Morgana. Have some hemlock, Morgana.”

Arthur doesn’t follow, this shift in the wind. “Merlin, what’s she talking about?”

Morgana’s eyes go wide, delighted. “You didn’t tell him? Merlin _poisoned_ me.”

Arthur makes some aborted noise. Morgana looks to him. “Yes,” she says. “In a way, this is all Merlin’s fault. No wrath like a woman scorned.”

It eats Merlin up inside, for he knows that she speaks the truth. Not exactly in the way that she means, but it’s agonizing to know that for her, this wasn’t only about magic. He knows how she feels, having to hold too many parts back from someone you care about. In many ways, they are so much the same. Heartbreakingly the same. She’s everything he could have been. He could have been Uther’s enemy, had Uther killed someone he cared about, like this mother. Had Arthur rejected him.

“You were killing them.”

“I didn’t know,” Morgana says, too quick, too shrill. For a moment, her witch persona recedes and there’s something fragile beneath, thrumming below her skin. A glimpse of the Morgana that was. “I didn’t…Morgause didn’t include me in her plan. She couldn’t trust me, not yet. She wasn’t sure of my allegiance. Until you took care of that.”

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Merlin’s losing it, the threads fraying. “I couldn’t let them die.”

“No,” Morgana says. “You couldn’t let _him_ die. But you could let me die.” She looks worn, weary. “I asked you once, why you’re so ridiculously loyal. Servants aren’t loyal. Just look at Gwen.”

Gwen stirs. “I would have done anything for you. But you changed, Morgana. You left me behind. I could never be loyal to what you’ve become.”

Morgana waves her away, inconsequential. And _that_ , Merlin thinks, is why no one stays loyal to her. She’s never cared, what people think.“You said I wouldn’t understand that kind of loyalty. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I understand now.”

Merlin’s lost her now. He’s _lost_ her. The Morgana he knew, she’s gone. 

Her head cocks. “Once, you found me beautiful.”

“What does that have to—?”

“I practically threw myself at you. In my nightgown, no less. No man could have resisted me.” 

Merlin goes still, cheeks flame. 

She continues, “But you aren't like other men, are you? You resisted. You wouldn’t touch me. Wouldn’t hold me. Wouldn’t _help_ me.”

She’s prodding at it, his deepest, darkest places. The secret he never lets himself think about. Once, he hurt Morgana. Now, she’ll hurt him, in the worst way possible. Dig the knife in deep, deepest. Pull out his beating heart and feed it to him, in the way only she can.

And they have a rapt audience, this interplay between these two people. No one knew about this, any of it, not even suspected. Arthur had it backwards, thought Merlin was besotted with Morgana. He never guessed it could be the other way around. Merlin was beneath her, a mere servant.

Of course, so was Gwen.

“I finally figured it out,” Morgana says. “It's not that you don't fancy me. It's that you don't fancy _women_."

Merlin can't think. Can't even think.

Morgana's gleeful. "Your heart has always belonged to another. Someone you've been willing to die for. Has he guessed it, your little secret? All those times you've dressed him, bathed him, put him to bed, surely you've let slip some hint."

“Don’t listen to her,” Arthur murmurs. He doesn’t look at Merlin. “She seeks to weaken you. Us. That’s all.” He’s telling Merlin this. He’s telling himself this.

Merlin can't move, can't think, can't exist. Even without her magic, Morgana has petrified him. And that's how it might have ended, the great Emrys defeated without his opponent ever lifting a finger, had it not been for a minute movement. Behind the throne, Mordred unfolds. Still bruised and bloodied, but his bones have knit. His bruises have soured. The sight gives Merlin the impetus he needs to break free of this horrible hold.

“Morgana,” Merlin chokes, desperate. “I’m the one who wronged you. Let them go. Do with me what you will.”

“As tempting as it is to keep you as a pet, I’m not as young and…" She gestures, the length of her. "...spry as I used to be. No, I no longer want you. Now, I want you to _suffer_.” She lets the word reverberate, lets it fester. Then she brightens. “I don’t know about you, but I feel ten years younger, all those secrets off my chest. They do have a way of weighing.”

“Morgana,” Merlin says, affecting false cheer of his own. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. His name is Emrys.”

The witch whirls, but she’s too late. Already, Mordred’s chains have melted away. With Merlin’s help, he yanks Excalibur from the wall and points it at the delicate line of Morgana’s throat. 

Mordred’s eyes are a menace.

Morgana swallows. 

No mortal blade can kill her, but this is no mortal blade. A single slice, and Mordred will carve her a new smile.

Morgana smiles. 

“Mordred,” she says, and that’s when Merlin feels it, the first tendril of dread. There’s something about it, her complete lack of concern. She’s mad, yes. But she’s not that mad. “Be a dear. Put the sword down.”

Mordred won’t listen to her. 

He’ll smile his little non-smile and will quip something dramatic and witty and will plunge a magic sword into magic flesh. Into a heart, down a throat, it does not matter, the only thing that matters is that it’s done. One thrust, that’s all it will take. One stroke and Mordred is everything he’s ever wanted, Mordred is a hero, Mordred is Emrys.

Less than a hairsbreadth, a heartbeat, that’s how close Mordred is to his happy ending.

But Mordred, he doesn’t do any of that. He does not smile. He says nothing witty nor dramatic, nothing at all.

Mordred lowers the sword.

It sags from limp fingers, edge ringing against stone.

More tendrils of dread blaze within Merlin, a choking horror, at what this means. Frantic, he reaches out with his mind (too late, too late) and tries to connect with Mordred for the first time. Distantly, he recognizes that the mental wall, the one he’d built to protect himself from images of the druid slaughter, is still there. It still prevents Mordred from speaking to him. Immediately, he drops it, smashes it, throws himself open.

He’s flooded with a flail of sound, the mental equivalent of a scream. And Merlin can’t help it, he _flinches_. This is what it would have been like, the test for magic. Merlin wouldn't have passed.

There’s a mantra in Mordred’s mind: _Merlin, don’t. I’m not me, Merlin. She’s got me, Merlin. Merlin, she’s got me. Merlin merlin merlin._ Mordred tries to tell him, tries to warn him. Screams it at him, screams his name, again and again. But Merlin, he would not, could not hear. He wasn’t _listening_.

Morgana reclines on her throne of bones. “I’ve got something better you can do with that sword.” 

Her dark gaze settles on a King.

“Kill Arthur Pendragon.”


	13. Chapter 13

Mordred’s face wipes blank, pupils blown wide and inhuman. Blood trails like rust from his nose, his mouth, his ears.

He takes a step toward Arthur. 

 _Fight this_ , Merlin sends. Mordred flinches but takes another step. Excalibur drags behind him, its tip grating against stone.

Merlin scans for the source of Morgana’s hold. It must be something tangible, something that could have been applied quickly. Elaborate enchantments of the mind take time and patience, neither of which Morgana had. But Mordred wears no amulets, either around his wrists or neck. He supposes Morgana could have tucked it in a pocket. 

Merlin shifts to look within. He hopes to find some sign of the wriggles. Maybe they can give some hint of what Morgana has done. Yet Mordred’s insides remain opaque, the wriggles nowhere to be found, as though they’ve abandoned ship. Instead, Merlin finds something else. A familiar lump at the base of Mordred’s neck.

“You won’t do this, Mordred,” Arthur says, trusting his most eager, most dedicated of knights. He spreads his hands, unarmed. “You won’t hurt me.”

But Merlin knows that Mordred _will_.

For Mordred’s will is not his own.

Merlin remembers what it was like, being under the thrall of the snake. His entire world condensed to a single goal—kill Arthur Pendragon. It was the reason he breathed, the reason he’d been born, the reason he’d come to Camelot. He’d eschewed drink, sleep, food, would have forgone breath itself. His every thought slanted toward increasingly absurd strategies to kill a King.

Oddly, it never occurred to him to kill Arthur with magic.

Now, Mordred gives no thought to his own magic. Or to Merlin’s. He skirts past, a minor annoyance on his way to Arthur. Had the knight been in his right mind, he would have known to get Merlin out of the way first.

Merlin’s instincts scream at him to use his magic. If it’s a choice between exposing himself and saving Arthur’s life, there is no choice. But Merlin and his magic are known. They’ve been written since the dawn of time. So perhaps the only way to defeat Fate is to ignore your usual instincts.

Maybe, just maybe, he thinks he shouldn’t use magic.

With the desperation of the dying, Merlin launches himself at Mordred, clings to him like a vise, all elbows and knees. The knight sags and staggers for a moment under the weight. Merlin ignores the fresh stitch in his side. Ignores Arthur’s hiss of “His sword, you idiot!” 

Merlin’s not after the sword.

As they scuffle, Morgana laughs. She’s always enjoyed watching men fight.

“Sire,” Leon says and tosses his own sword like a horseshoe. It skids and clatters along the flagstones to Arthur’s feet. In the same moment, Mordred’s elbow catches Merlin in the forehead. Merlin falls away, lands with bruising force on a hip. Mordred has shrugged him off like a gnat in the ear. 

Arthur levers the incoming sword with a boot and catches its hilt in time to parry Mordred’s initial strike.

Yet Mordred does not strike. He stares at Excalibur as though mesmerized by its glow. Arthur watches warily, in a defensive crouch. Yet he holds, intent on Mordred’s face.

“Do it now,” Morgana says. “Fulfill your destiny.”

Mordred looks back up at Arthur, and this is it. 

Oh, the details are different. It’s supposed to happen on a battlefield, beneath a seared sky. Mordred framed by fire. Yet here it’s dark, the sun has gone. The only fire comes from the failing torches on the wall. 

Yet still Merlin knows that this is the moment.

The one he’s dreaded for years. 

Mordred will strike. 

Arthur will fall.

And Merlin, even with all his power, might not be able to stop it. If he learned anything from his treatment of Morgana, it’s that you can’t outwit Fate. Try and you often play right into its hands.

His first salvo failed, Merlin gathers himself, prepares to stop Mordred however he must. Merlin can’t trust in Arthur’s ability, not this time. Mordred is fresh, his strength surged from the touch of the water sprite. The King is too weary. He’s slept poorly for days, traveled steadily for others, fought indefatigable creatures for hours, and carried Merlin’s dead weight up—

Mordred lowers his sword. “No.”

Morgana’s cheeks pink as though she’s been struck. “What did you say?”

“I will not do it,” Mordred says. His voice gets stronger, some fog lifts. “I will not kill my King.”

He says this because in their brief struggle, Merlin managed to place a hand on Mordred’s neck. He couldn’t risk killing the snake, couldn’t risk another springing up in its place, but he could disable it. So Merlin had put the snake to sleep.

Arthur relaxes his battle stance, relief tugging at his lips. Mordred gives him a solemn nod. Together, they swing to face Morgana, weapons at the ready.

“Impossible,” Morgana says. “No one has ever foiled the snake. No one except…” She pushes to her feet. Before Merlin can guess at what she will do, she raises a palm.

The world stops. 

Everyone goes preternaturally still, insects in amber. As they had the night of the feast. Everyone except Merlin. This time, he’s ready for her. He moves himself a blink to the right. Not enough that she’d notice, but enough that her bindings don’t encircle. They whisper past his flesh, fall to the floor like a discarded night shift.

“He’s here.” Morgana can’t quite mask the tremble. The torches flare, seeking to chase away the shadows, as her gaze oscillates wildly across the room. She even inspects the ceiling above, as though she fears Emrys could be clinging like a spider.

 _Merlin_ , Mordred sends, though his eyes never leave Morgana. _Help me_. He throws himself open wide, as if in embrace. It’s what Mordred has always wanted, for Merlin to let him in. For Merlin to let him help.

But Merlin cannot, will not risk it, not after what happened with the owl. It’s too dangerous, this blending of essence. Mordred doesn’t know what he’s asking. 

Merlin shakes his head, ever so slight.

Mordred’s eyes turn to steel. To Merlin’s horror, Mordred rotates the sword in his wrist. Because he can.

Mordred can _move_.

Whether because of his own magic (or Excalibur’s), he hasn’t fallen prey to Morgana’s snare.

The movement draws Morgana’s attention like a beacon. Mordred has but moments. 

Merlin hesitates no more. For the first time, Merlin accepts Mordred and all that he offers. Mordred did not kill Arthur. But perhaps he can kill Morgana. And so Merlin’s magic rushes toward the knight, envelops him. His fears about subsuming Mordred are unfounded. It’s like pouring frankincense into water. Their magics mix, but you can still see where one begins and the other ends. 

Together, they expand.

Together, they are more.

Excalibur flares in greeting, and Morgana winces against the brightness. In the face of their fused magic, the sword’s glow transmutes from gangrene to golden. A golden sword fit to save a golden king. 

Morgana understands what this means.

She understands, but she can’t accept. “You’re not Emrys,” she spits. “If you were, you wouldn’t hide behind a sword.”

Her eyes flash, as they had when she’d stripped the weapon from Arthur. Yet this time, Excalibur stays snug in Mordred’s palm, courtesy of Merlin.

She lets fly a curse. Mordred parries with Excalibur, and it must seem to Morgana as though he cuts the spell in half. Useless remnants flutter to the earth. 

Mordred begins to stalk toward Morgana. There’s a manic cast to his gaze, some holy fervor. Merlin’s glad that intensity is directed at someone else for once.

Morgana shrinks from it, the first glimmer of weakness. She backs up, scrambles from him.

Mordred smirks. “I thought you weren’t afraid of a silly sword.”

Morgana flings other spells, screams them even. Together, Mordred and Merlin block all of them, casting her efforts away like chaff. All the while, Mordred doesn’t attack. He merely walks, as inexorable as doom. Grins wider than Merlin has ever seen, showing all his teeth.

He’s backing her into a corner.

And even though Merlin is hampered by the fact that he must not move, must not utter a word, he thinks they just might _win_. They’re going to win and Merlin’s secret will remain intact. Merlin clings to it, the last vestiges of his own anonymity. He’s navigated similar crises. He’ll do so again. Things don’t have to change. Not until he’s ready. He can tell Arthur on his own terms, when the time is right. After the treaty with the Saxons or…

Morgana _shrieks_.

An earsplitting thing that rattles her throne and cracks the ceiling and trembles the tower. Above, glass shatters. But instead of the shards falling like meteors to the earth, they dart like daggers, like a swarm of bees. And not toward Mordred, no. 

Morgana sends them hurtling toward everyone else.

She’s found it—Merlin’s weakness.

A fraction, a flash, a firefly’s wink. That’s how long Merlin’s attention wavers, how long it takes to divert the glass away from Arthur, from himself. To send it tinkling harmlessly into the shadows. He looks away from Mordred for only a moment.

It’s all Morgana needs.

She darts forward, quicker than the tail of a serket. Already Mordred is close. Too close. Already, Merlin brings his magic to bear, ready to counter her next spell. But Morgana doesn’t utter a spell. She places a palm over Mordred’s heart and _pushes_. Her hand on him like that, it magnifies and quickens her magic. There’s no time for Merlin to react, an infinitesimal delay between flesh and spirit. The force of it pulps Mordred’s heart in his chest. It explodes his body backwards, cartwheels him into a nearby pillar, sends Excalibur flying from his limp grip.

Merlin jerks, detaching from Mordred by instinct, pain blooming in his own chest. He’s fortunate that Morgana doesn’t see it, her back to him.

Someone else does.

Arthur’s eyes shift to Merlin’s flinch. 

The room stills. 

Mordred lies like the dead, his soul a wisp that seeps. Merlin catches the sliver of soul before it slips into oblivion. He keeps Mordred alive. But only just.

Excalibur lies at Morgana’s feet. It’s gone dull, magic receded. Nothing but an ordinary sword. She screams at it, stomps on it, a child throwing a temper tantrum. Then she kicks at its hilt. It slides to a nearby grate in the floor and disappears into the depths.

Morgana merely stands, unmoving. Head and shoulders bowed. She should be jubilant. Instead, she looks almost…sad. Her gaze seems unfocused, as though she can’t bear to focus on Mordred. To focus on what she’s done.

“It’s over, Morgana,” Arthur says. He’s bitter, tongue and tone not entirely under his control. “You killed him. Is that what you wanted?”

“It’s not over,” she says. She stares down at her palm, the one she’d pressed to Mordred’s heart. Merlin feels a chill, for Morgana had sensed him once, in the body of an owl. “Mordred had magic. He didn’t have magic like that.”

Morgana closes her palm into a fist. “Once again, Emrys was too much of a coward to face me on his own. He made me kill someone I once considered a friend. A brother.”

“No one _made_ you do anything,” Arthur says. “Your choices are your own.” 

Morgana smiles. She’s not listening to Arthur. Not anymore.

“Emrys,” she whispers. 

“Emrys,” she screams, raising her head to the sky.

“Face me, Emrys,” she says, glaring at them now, daring Emrys to ignore her. “Or I will fell them where they stand.”

Merlin doesn’t move, for he already faces her. And he thinks he can prevent it, anything she seeks to do. They’re in a stalemate. She knows it, he knows it.

Arthur seeks to break it. “Can’t you see? There is no Emrys. You’ll raze the world for someone who doesn’t exist.”

As he speaks, Morgana drifts to him. Dazed, dangerous. Walks around him as though it’s a dance at court, surveying him from all angles. Merlin is drawn tight with it, his desperation. All it would take is for Morgana to reach out, touch Arthur’s flesh.

Arthur ignores it, the danger he’s in. He presses hard and deep, the cutting truth. “You killed your kin. Your only threat. The rest of us can’t match you. You’re stronger than all of us combined. You’ve _won_. What more do you want?” Arthur composes himself, a final plea. “Be done with this. Let us go.”

“Oh,” she says. “I was never going to let you go.” Arthur doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he’s resigned. He’d known, all along, that he came to his death. “But don’t worry, Arthur. I won’t kill your precious Gwen.” Morgana leans in. “At least, not until _after_.”

After, she says. After what? Merlin doesn’t know, what she could possibly mean.

Images come in a flood—the despair Arthur has worn like a shroud, the fear that’s gnawed beneath his skin. Arthur’s fingers clutching at the dark earth of an unmarked grave. How hard he’d pushed the horses, the way he never does. Little moments, little vignettes of Arthur. Things that Merlin saw but, individually, could not understand. They draw together now, knit themselves into a complete portrait.

In Arthur’s face, Merlin sees the truth. He’s _horrified_.

Merlin thinks of flowers, the ones Arthur had asked for, the day of a last-minute feast.

They were baby’s breath.

And Morgana _knows_. She knows them, all the secrets.

“Please,” Arthur says, and the word breaks. A tone Merlin’s never heard him use. For he’s never heard Arthur as a _father_. Arthur wrenches against them, the ties that bind. But Arthur can’t move, can’t use his strength to defend himself, the only way he knows how. If Arthur had the strength to break Morgana’s bonds, he would. As it is, he will break himself against them.

Morgana watches him struggle, taking a perverse pleasure in the power she has over her brother. He’s always been so strong. Now he’s nothing but a sniveling worm, tears unfettered down his face. The way Merlin’s never seen him cry, worse than when Gaius proclaimed Uther dead.

“Please,” Arthur says again, softer now.

“I’ll raise it as my own,” Morgana is saying, somewhere far away. “Like Uther raised me.”

But Arthur’s not looking at Morgana.

“With a Pendragon heir by my side,” Morgana is saying, “who can deny what is rightfully mine?”

Arthur’s looking past Morgana.

He’s looking at Merlin.

He’s looking at Merlin because although Arthur’s head tells him that Merlin can’t have magic (he would know), his heart tells him something different. Merlin had walked despite his wound. Merlin had flinched when Mordred was hit. Merlin had told him he was Emrys. And so even though Arthur might not know, he _believes_. Merlin has magic. Merlin has always had magic. Merlin is the only one who can save him now. Can save his _child_.

“Please,” Arthur whispers, for Merlin’s ears alone.

And Merlin hears.

Everything falls away. Fear, doubt, guilt—they slough like snow from a roof. They no longer weigh him, no longer touch him, melted away like mist.

So as Morgana savors her victory, as she rants and raves about the future she’ll create, this is what Merlin does.

Merlin _sneezes_.

The memory of flowers, perhaps.

The sneeze is not violent. Not forceful. It’s as gentle as a butterfly’s wings.

Yet Morgana shuts right up. She swivels to face him.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, but it comes out more like _soddy_. He wipes at his stuffed nose. Waves a vague hand. “Bones.” He staggers around a bit, for effect. He’s excellent at this, playing the fool. 

Morgana stares.

“You,” she breathes. This time, she does not laugh.

Slowly, Merlin stills. He draws himself up to his full height, an inch taller than Arthur. Stands as regal as royalty. Lets serious seep into his eyes. Even Arthur grows uneasy with it, this abrupt change. He’s never seen Merlin like this. Never seen him _dangerous_.

“Me,” Merlin echoes. He bares his teeth.

In Morgana’s gaze, Merlin can see a march of years. Memories tinged with the knowledge that Merlin has magic. And not only her. Arthur, too. What’s going on behind his eyes, Merlin cares about more. But Arthur, he’s gone stoic and distant, the way he does when—

Morgana shouts a spell, a deadly one. The kind you don’t deflect, as it would be akin to deflecting a crossbow with your bare palm. It’s not done. Yet Merlin does it. Without raising a palm or uttering a single word. 

He’s just…not dead.

Merlin’s turn.

He makes a fist. Morgana’s eyes pop, squeezed by some force. She chokes, claws at her throat, she can’t breathe. 

And then Merlin _throws_. Slings his fist, and Morgana sails up, up, and out, through a wound of a window. Shrieking all the way. Merlin shows her what it’s like to fly, then what it’s like to fall. And he falls with her, his stomach surging, clogging at his throat.

Merlin doesn’t wait to feel her land. Instead, he hurries to Gwen. Arthur and the knights also converge, for as Merlin released Morgana from this room, so her paralysis released them. Wide-eyed faces turn to him, wary. It’s as though they no longer see Merlin. They see magic.

“You tossed her out a window,” Arthur says.

Merlin ignores him, ignores all of them. He focuses on Gwen, crouches before her. Of all of them, she looks least likely to stab him. Perhaps because she doesn’t have a sword. She gazes to whence Morgana has gone with a faraway look, as though many things start to make sense.

With a touch, he releases her chains.

“Mother of…” Elyan murmurs, for it’s well known that sorcerers, they don’t do iron.

Somewhere, Morgana meets the earth. Much heavier than a bird.

“Can you trust me?” Merlin asks. Gwen looks to him slowly, seems surprised to find him there. There’s something in her gaze. He thinks it might be shock. It’s been too much, these last days. He has absolutely no idea what she will say. But he had to ask, for he can’t do this alone.

Gwen’s eyes go diamond-hard. “With our lives,” she says. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t doubt, doesn’t fear. She’s fierce and determined and oh gods, she’s already forgiven him. The reason her father’s dead. (And his own. And…)

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He grips her hands. “Close your eyes.”

Somewhere far below, Morgana’s fractured limbs begin to move.

“What’s this?” Arthur says from where he stands behind Gwen. There’s a pinch of panic to his voice. He grips his sword, too tight. “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done days ago,” Merlin says, and doesn’t think. He does.

It’s easier this time, for Gwen doesn’t shrink from him. She embraces him. And his magic embraces her right back, wraps itself around her, snug and warm. Merlin closes his eyes and invokes it, the place that makes his insides and outsides glow. He can picture it behind his eyelids—austere stone and wood warmed by rich reds and gleaming golds, the feel of velvet beneath his smoothing fingertips, the tang of blackened wicks, the crackle-pop of a merry fire in a massive hearth. And that sense he has every time he steps into these rooms, that he’s come home. 

When it happens, it’s not violent, not like Morgana. Not like the crone Merlin had seen the first day he stepped foot in Camelot, at her son’s execution. It’s gentle, like going to sleep. One moment, Gwen’s hair and cloak stir and swirl in a soft current, as if she’s underwater. Gwen smiles. The next, she’s gone.

Merlin stays crouched, clutching at the stones beneath. The tower seems to shift and sway, tortured by some mighty wind. Or perhaps that’s just him.

Then Arthur’s too close, hands heavy and rough on Merlin’s shoulders. “If you’ve harmed her—”

“They’re safe,” Merlin chokes. “She’s—”

A scream comes from beyond the room, as curdling and otherworldly as the dorocha. But the sound doesn’t come from the dead. It comes from the living. Morgana comes. She’s sensed, what Merlin has done.

At the sound, Arthur and the knights start. Arthur gives them the signal, and they make to scatter. “I’ll see to Mordred,” he says.

“No,” Merlin barks. He reaches for Arthur’s sleeve. “Stay here.”

It catches Arthur off guard, the authority in Merlin's tone. Or perhaps he's distracted by the way Merlin's hands flutter as he builds an invisible layer of protection around the group. Even Gwaine, who Percy and Elyan have dragged over, using his cloak as a gurney. Merlin’s magic gathers around them like a net, his own version of armor. He layers them in a web of enchantments, the way he dresses his King.

Arthur, though, he can’t see it. Can’t know what Merlin does, perhaps thinks that he does nothing but flail. He yanks on Merlin’s arm, staying his motion. “She’ll decimate us with a single blow.”

Merlin fights free. “Not if you let me finish.”

“This is _war_. I think I know—”

“It’s magic,” Merlin snaps. “The usual rules don’t apply.” When Arthur does not yield, Merlin snarls, “Oh for gods’ sake, for once just do as you’re told.” 

Merlin splays his fingers. The chains that bound Gwen slither to tether Arthur to the floor. A cuff around his boot, its end melted into stone. Arthur kicks against it, going a shade of apoplectic that would rival Cook. Leon and Elyan flank him, swords turned toward Merlin. They’re uncertain, afraid. Of _him_. 

“This is treason,” Arthur says. He looks at Merlin as if he doesn’t know him. As if he’s never known him. But Merlin can’t worry about this. Can’t worry about Arthur’s _feelings_. Or his own. Not now.

“It’s reason,” he says, and raises his arms anew. “Now stay—”

Merlin doesn’t finish, his sentence or the protection spell. The wooden doors to the room blow open. They scream from their hinges and land, a ponderous slide and scrape across the floor. 

In their wake stands Morgana.

Her eyes spark, and Merlin, still weaving his web, loses his feet. He pinwheels up and up, a leaf in a hurricane. Morgana aims him for the window, tit for tat. Yet Merlin curls and twists himself against it, curves his trajectory so he arcs down. Lands so heavily that his knees buckle and he must tumble out of it.

Already, Morgana reaches to Arthur. From his knees, Merlin flings up his own hand. And Arthur throws up an arm as well, covering his face, bracing for a blow. 

Yet none comes. 

Nothing happens. Nothing at all. 

They can’t see it, but Morgana’s spell deflects off an invisible bubble that Merlin has secured around them. His wards draw tight, blankets tucked carefully at the edges.

Morgana stamps a foot. Stones fracture beneath it. “I want you dead,” she shrills. “Why won’t you die?” 

“It’s not his time,” Merlin says. He regains his feet, his fragile equilibrium. Steps to face Morgana now, right in her eye line. He wants her eyes on him, not Arthur. “But it is yours.”

Standing like this, they’re a distorted mirror. Dark hair, pale skin and eyes. Morgana is everything Merlin could have become.

Morgana smiles like a fracture in glass. “Mordred failed. And so will Emrys.” 

As one, their palms raise. 

Their eyes flash. 

And their magics come.


	14. Chapter 14

Their energies collide, a crash of waves against exposed rocks in the sea, spraying sparks. 

Morgana sways and bows under the force of him, unlike anything she’s felt. But Merlin hardly feels her, doesn’t fight it. Whatever her intent, he lets it wash over and around him and around Arthur, too. His bubble holds, a boulder amid a stream.

Before Morgana can recover, Merlin moves. He drops to his knees and plunges his hands into stone. Fists flagstones like clay. Rivulets of rock course toward where she stands, as though large serpents plow beneath the floor. She sees them come, can’t help but stumble back. When the ridges reach her, the stones at her feet melt to mush, to mud. She sinks into it, slips in it, skirts dragging and weighing in the clinging muck.

Merlin twists, and the stone hardens once more. It stills her feet, her skirts. 

Then he stands and shouts for the skies, his voice a rumble. He has no need of it, to spout spells. But this time, he wants Morgana to hear. Wants there to be no more doubt, of what he can do.

It works. Morgana’s eyes blow wide. She flails against the stone that holds her fast. It does not yield, so she overbalances and pitches forward. Catches herself on her hands, bloodies her palms. She flings her hair from her face, arches like a beast, and hisses. 

Torches along the wall flare, flaming fire toward him, toward Arthur. But Merlin has been bathed in a dragon’s breath. This is a puny pittance. He waves it away like errant smoke, keeping his eyes on the sky. 

Above, clouds swirl, swarming to blot the stars, the moon. Around the tower, wind wails and claws for a way in.

Merlin tips his face up, throws his arms wide and embraces it, the power that crackles around and through him. Too long dormant, too long denied. It thrums and drums within him now, headier than any wine. He can do anything.

Morgana’s gone limp, fixated on the agitated sky, arms loose at her sides. As though she’s accepted it, that there’s no escape. Her lips shape soundless words, a final prayer.

Merlin spares a glance for Arthur. He needs to know what Arthur’s thinking. If Arthur understands, what he must do. If Arthur would do the same, were it his sword to Morgana’s throat.

Unlike the other knights who circle their cage, patting at the air, Arthur stands immobile in the center of the bubble. He watches Merlin intently, the way he does when he sizes up an opponent. Merlin had hoped to read his face, to see acceptance. Or at least resignation. When the good of the kingdom is at stake, Arthur never falters. 

But Arthur is withdrawn, guarded. Merlin can’t read him, can’t _feel_ him, not anymore. There will be no blessing from the King.

Merlin swells with sorrow. For so long, he's wanted to show Arthur that magic can be a thing of beauty. That it can be used to heal, to protect, to make people smile. But now he must show Arthur that magic can be used to kill.

Yet it must be done.

Whether Arthur wills it or no.

Merlin will protect Arthur at all costs. Even against himself.

And so Merlin turns back to the angry clouds, which roil and sizzle, seeking release. He raises a hand and directs the sky’s rage to meet Morgana’s. It’s a risk, what he seeks to do. He must be precise. A single slip, and he’ll fry everyone in the room. 

He does not slip.

His aim is straight and true. He stabs lightning into the circle of Morgana’s crown. Her wail is drowned by a mighty flash-crack, the sizzle of flesh. He looks away, for she burns too bright. He might see her forever, branded into his retinas. 

* * *

 

Darkness swallows the room anew, torches guttered. The wind has died and a stench descends, as though of charred meat left too long in the sun, spoiled.

Above, the sky clears, there are still stars. There’s a moon. Its feeble light illuminates the place where Morgana was. As his eyes adjust, Merlin will see nothing but empty space. Walls spattered with viscera. He thinks it will be easier for Arthur, not to have to see the gory aftermath of what magic has done. No body to mourn. Only a memory.

But that’s not what Merlin sees. A carcass remains, like a puppet propped up by his stone, which twines around the flesh of her legs. 

By the looks of it, it won’t stand for long. Her flesh is like the husk of a lonely tree on a hill. Denuded of leaves, licked by lightning. Her dress is a patchwork, singed and smoking, held together by the barest thread. Hair frazzled and fried. 

Mercifully, her eyes are closed.

All that’s left is a slight breeze to knock her over.

Merlin gathers himself to do it. One puff, and he will extinguish her like a candle.

He hesitates. Wills Arthur not to watch. But of course Arthur watches. Of course Arthur absorbs it, how Merlin uses his magic to kill the last of them, the only family he has left. Magic has killed them all.

But before Merlin can finish it, Morgana’s eyelids flutter, denuded of their lashes.

Her eyes burst open. They glow, but not with gold. They’re filled with an eerie bright and white. They’re filled with lightning.

Before Merlin can do anything, anything at all, Morgana’s jaw unhinges. She screams, but it’s not sound. 

She screams _lightning_. 

It streams from everywhere—eyes, mouth, nose, fingertips, even the tips of her hair. She channels it all forward. But not toward Merlin, no. She streaks it toward Arthur and the knights. Like Arthur, she’s studied her enemy. She understands, all too well, the chinks in Merlin’s armor.

Merlin braces. He pours everything he has into reinforcing his shield, gathers its edges like a pack, holding tight. Wishes he were closer…

Lightning fractures his shield like a mace through an egg. 

Merlin’s blown back by the force of it, tumbling head over heels. The knights as well, scattered as though a cannonball has landed in their midst. Merlin does his best to cushion their fall against a pillar, the wall, the floor. He hates to think, what further damage is done to Gwaine, to Mordred. 

But at least they’ve been thrown free. At least they can move. Arthur, on the other hand, cannot. Some idiot chained him to the floor. So it’s Arthur who bears the brunt of it, who becomes the focus of Merlin’s usurped power. Arthur who disappears behind a blaze of light that was meant for his sister.

Merlin screams and starts to sprint but it’s too much and he’s too far. Yet still he holds on. To what, he does not know. He only knows that he can’t let go.

As before, lightning winks out like a firefly, sudden as though it never was. Merlin is horrified at the sudden though that Arthur has winked out as well, like Morgana was supposed to. But then his eyes adjust and he spies it, a form huddled on the floor.

Miracle of miracles, Arthur raises his head. He’s ducked low, made himself as small as he can. Clings to the chain like a lifeline. He appears unhurt, not a hair harmed on his head. And Merlin can’t understand it, can’t fathom what he’s possibly done. Right up until the point where Arthur’s armor begins to glow.

For years, Merlin used magic to polish that armor, to smooth and soothe its dents. He’s layered Arthur in it, time and again, willing it to protect him. Apparently, he’d infused it with more of his magic—with more of himself—than he knew. 

Now the armor glows with a golden light, similar to how Excalibur had done, when it met Merlin’s magic. Arthur has always shone with his own light from within. Now it’s from without as well, clear for all to see.

A glorious, golden King.

Merlin reaches him, drops at his feet. He pets at armor, at skin, seeking damage. But Arthur shoves him off, too rough, and stands. He kicks a foot and rattles his chain. Pointedly. 

Merlin releases the clasp with a look.

“Help Mordred,” Arthur barks. 

And then he _runs_.

But not toward Mordred.

Arthur runs toward Morgana, sword bared, a battle cry on his lips. And of course he does because Arthur has always fancied himself invincible. Even without enchanted armor.

Already, Morgana wipes circles into the air, stirring at the wind. Flagstones pry themselves from the floor and whirl like plates, toward Arthur and the knights. Rocks wriggle from the walls and dive-bomb. Glass streaks from the shadows. 

Arthur bats some of the projectiles away, absorbs others with a shoulder. Yet still he comes, even as glass slices the flesh of his cheek.

Merlin can’t let Arthur get to Morgana, can’t watch Arthur fracture himself against her. Merlin must get to her first.

This has to end.

And so Merlin _moves_ , a rock across a pond, skipping toward Morgana faster than she can track.

“You can’t win, Emrys,” Morgana taunts.

She reaches for a nearby pillar. It shivers in its berth and spits pebbles.

Merlin doesn’t let her distract him.

He doesn’t hesitate.

With a final burst, he’s right in her face.

“My name,” he says, “is _Merlin_.”

He reaches out and grips her hands, staying her movement, staying her magic.

A tsunami of air sweeps through the chambers. Arthur and the knights fly back, plastered to the far wall. 

Merlin and Morgana stand alone, locked in a battle only they can see. This private struggle is nothing like their previous salvos. Their magics crawl across each other’s skin and sink in to each other’s flesh and run through their very veins. Within, their magics spark and slip and strike, each seeking to consume.

With nothing in between, the flesh stripped away, it’s Merlin against Morgana. Merlin’s magic blazes brighter than the sun, the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth. Alone, Morgana is nothing but the moon, a pale imitation. Yet Morgana is not alone. She’s cloaked in a darkness that spreads like the night sky.

Merlin can see it now, the source of her power. They’re all around him, the dead. She draws from them still, from beyond the veil, where no mortal should ever go.

It’s cost her much—beauty, health, sanity.

And yet she’s gladly paid this price. For her reward will be Merlin’s death.

She’s won. 

They both know it.

There are no more secrets.

Merlin has delivered himself into Morgana’s clutches. Now that she can touch him, now that she can _feel_ him, she delays no further.

Morgana drops the night sky on his head.

She focuses all of the night’s darkness into the tower, her vessel, and pours it over Merlin like boiling tar. This tower was built for battle. It was built for death. Morgana uses it to cascade him with darkness, with death. Darkness stuffs down his throat and blinds his eyes and drowns his lungs. Darkness coats him inside and out. 

Merlin can’t see, can’t move, can’t think. Can’t even scream.

This is how the story ends.

But before it does, before darkness blots him out entirely, Merlin becomes aware that something wraps around his ankle. Fingers.

The fingers are attached to a hand that now moves to his calf, exposed beneath the tattered leg of his trouser. Merlin knows this hand, can read the map of callouses on the palm.

Arthur has come.

Just as Merlin had crawled to Arthur, so now has Arthur crawled to Merlin, fighting a mighty headwind.

Merlin is carved from stone, made deaf and dumb with what Morgana has done. Arthur pulls himself up a statue, limb by limb, until he stands, one arm flung around Merlin’s chest, palm pressed to a fading heart.

Lending his strength.

Then there’s another hand, on Arthur’s ankle. Leon. And Elyan’s hand around Leon’s ankle. Even Gwaine, who’s popped an eye, splays a limp fist across Elyan’s calf. They smother against the floor and grip to each other.

A human chain.

Their touch revitalizes.

As Morgana draws strength from the dead, so now does Merlin draw strength from the living. He draws their courage, their strength. Their love. They still feel it, even for him. Even now that they know who he really is.

Yet still, it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. They are but a handful of men. Morgana calls on the strength of multitudes, a horde of the dead. There is too much death in this place. There is too much death here. And the only thing that can defeat death is—

Merlin dives. He escapes his failing body, sends his awareness plummeting like an owl, down through the levels of the tower. Then below the earth itself, until he finds what he’s looking for.

Water.

Deep beneath the tower is an underground reservoir, one that seeps through the soil. Merlin follows the delicate tendrils of water until they connect with other streams, other rivers, other oceans. Until he feels himself spread thin, seeing through thousands of eyes.

All of Albion feels his need and responds to it, plants and animals and trees and yes, even people, the remaining Druids, burrowed deep into hiding. They sense his need, and they respond, each giving him a sliver of their magic, everything they can spare and more.

Merlin surges with it, this groundswell of magic the likes of which the world has never seen. The magic is light. The magic is _life_.

Then Merlin plunges back into Morgana’s darkness, the deepest, darkest place. The place where no mortal can ever trod, where the dorocha wail, and the Cailleach taunts. Merlin dives deep into it, the abyss that had swallowed Lancelot whole.

But Merlin, he doesn’t go alone. 

Mordred is with him.

For Mordred clings to awareness, still watches, still shares his thoughts. Merlin had not cut him out, not this time. He’ll share everything, until the very end. Mordred has watched. Mordred has waited. And now, Mordred speaks. 

 _Brother_ , he says. _Use me_.

Merlin doesn’t listen to him, for he won’t sacrifice another life for his own. Won’t let Mordred go the way of Lancelot, of a mother owl. He won’t lose a third friend. Merlin has always been willing to sacrifice his own life for Arthur’s. He’s given Arthur everything else. His service. His magic. His love. Now, he’ll give Arthur this.

Standing at the edge of the world, this is what Merlin does:

Merlin _pulls_.

Like he had, a lifetime ago, for a fistful of flowers. This time, the pull is more of a wrench. A severing of his soul. This will cost him a life. It will cost everything he is. 

The spirit world demands its sacrifice.

Except, it’s not Merlin’s soul that is wrenched from his body. In the instant that Merlin pulls, Mordred calls on the last of his own magic. He snips the gossamer thread that binds him to Merlin, the only thing left that binds Mordred to this world. The knight’s essence melts into the abyss.

“No,” Merlin screams, his voice lost to the wind.

Somewhere in the dark and deep, a veil tears.

Arthur and the knights are dislodged, their connection to Merlin severed. He can no longer feel them, is no longer buoyed by their strength. He can no longer feel _any_ one—Arthur, Morgana, Mordred, himself. He loses his feet, finds his knees, bruised and bloody. 

Even Morgana is staggered. “What have you done?” Madness bubbles in her voice.

Merlin walks on his knees. Back and back, until he plants himself before Arthur, before the knights. He gathers the weary, tattered shreds of his shield and lets it descend over them like an invisible cloak. It’s ragged and limp and full of holes, but it will hold. It must.

Arthur stands at his back, a hand on his shoulder, bracing him.

Then they wait.

* * *

 

In the darkness, death stirs.

The dead coalesce, invisible no longer. They're visible now, the army of the dead that Merlin has released from beyond the veil. The Camelot companions press themselves against the wall, trying not to brush against their ghostly cold. 

Unlike the dorocha, these apparitions are silent. They look human, flesh gray and luminescent. As Uther had looked. And unlike the dorocha, they are interested only in Morgana.

They’ve watched her. They’ve waited. Druids and soldiers and so many former citizens of the five kingdoms. People of all shapes and sizes, men, women, and children. 

The faces of the people she killed.

They fill the chamber and ring around a wilted rose. Eyes empty, they close on her from all sides, around and above and even below, hands that grasp through stone for her ankles, rooting her in place. They hem her in, nowhere for her to run. 

As they reach her, she begins to writhe. Her magic sparks, tossing the first wave back. Merlin shakes as he absorbs the impact of magic shards. His shield holds.

But still, they come. They pour endlessly into the chamber from the ragged windows and drop from the sagging roof.

There are so many.

They swarm her, until her magic chokes out, is smothered under their onslaught. Then their ephemeral hands rip and tear, first at her flesh, her hair, then her limbs. She shrieks with it, an inhuman grate that echoes until something bursts in Merlin’s ears, blood dribbles to his cheek. 

She screams until hands rip out her tongue, her throat, her lungs.

The dead churn and writhe and devour.

The source of Morgana’s power has become her downfall.

Merlin turns his face away. His neck creaks like the bough of an ancient oak. A single tear drips down his cheek.

As one, the dead go still, placid as a glacial lake. They stand looking down at a mangled corpse, its outlines just visible from where Merlin stands. As one, the dead bend. They pick up the pieces of their Dark Queen, bear her limbs and organs on a pyre of hands. And they begin to march. They carry her with them into the afterlife.

Torches gutter, the wind dies, the dead are gone.

The survivors stand in stunned silence. They breathe. They’re numb. They can hardly comprehend, what they’ve just seen.

The final straw, the throne crumbles, an avalanche of bone.

Morgana is nevermore.


	15. Chapter 15

Merlin drops his arms, his shield. His hands dangle by his sides, prickled with a numbness that has begun to spread up his limbs. 

Around him, there’s a flurry. He’s aware of it but apart somehow, as though he’s encased in thick, distorted glass. 

Vaguely, he hears Arthur bark orders, though none seem to be for him. He watches the knights scatter, each to their own task. Percy jogs to retrieve their swords, which have detached from the far wall. Leon disappears to scout between the pillars, checking that no more threats lurk. Elyan eases Gwaine into a more comfortable resting position and begins to triage his injuries.

And Arthur, he hurries to Mordred.

Merlin remains still and watches Arthur as he kneels and places two fingers on Mordred’s neck. Watches as Arthur sags at what he finds. Rather, at what he does not find. Watches as Arthur drags a palm across Mordred’s face, closing those eerie eyes forever.

Then Merlin can watch no longer, for his own eyes threaten to close. He can barely hold up his head. If he tries to move, tries to take even a single step, he might topple like a tree. A whisper of a wind could fell him.

Man was not meant for such magic.

But he can’t let go.

Not yet.

For the dead are not all gone. A few of them cling to the room like cobwebs, tickling at Merlin’s senses. Indistinct shapes mill near the crumbled throne, as though they have some unfinished agenda.

In time, the knights begin to see them, too. Arthur steps forward, sword extended. He’s right to be wary. The last time he’d encountered a shade, it had tried to kill the people he loved.

“Show yourself,” Arthur says.

His words stir the shades like a breeze.

One of them drifts toward them, too slow and steady to be a threat. A man whose flesh shines with its own light. A plain, kind face with wolf’s hair. 

Arthur shifts, not letting down his guard, not recognizing this man. But Merlin does. It’s the druid leader who’d relinquished the Cup of Life. Iseldir.

The druid ignores Arthur and his sword, although he does halt in his approach. Solemn, he bows his head.

But not to Arthur.

He bows to Merlin.

 _Thank you, Emrys_ , he says.

He speaks not only for himself but for them all, the druids that Morgana killed in her personal purge. He does not speak aloud. But from the way Arthur’s sword lowers, the knights murmur, Merlin knows that they all hear.

Then the druid steps away, fading into shadow.

* * *

 

Another shade comes, another face. This one familiar to them all.

Arthur stiffens. The knights exclaim. Merlin chokes.

It’s Lancelot. But not the Lancelot as they’d seen him last, with dark clothes and an even darker agenda. This is not the man who’d fallen on his own sword in shame after seducing Gwen. This is a younger, more familiar Lancelot, his tunic of the purest white. The way he looked the day he stepped into a veil in Arthur’s place. 

Lancelot says, “I don’t have much time. Already, the veil closes.”

He’s right. Distantly, Merlin can feel it closing in on itself like a wound.

A storm brews in Arthur’s eyes. “Why have you come? Morgana didn’t kill you.”

“In a way, she did.”

Arthur turns away. “I can’t listen to this, this…abomination.”

Merlin steadies himself with a hand against the wall, the only thing holding him up. “Arthur,” he croaks. “You need to hear this.”

Arthur doesn’t give any sign that he hears Merlin, either. But he does at least still, head lowered. He listens.

Lancelot drops to one knee. He bows his head. “My lord. That man who came back to you. It was not me. It was a shade, a shell of myself, enslaved to Morgana’s will.”

Arthur looks as though he’s going to be sick. “I don’t understand. Why would she—?”

“You know why. It worked. But you must know, I would never have treated you so ill. And neither would Gwen. She was enchanted as well.” At this, Arthur’s head jerks to Lancelot’s face. “Merlin knows my sad tale. Merlin, my friend. Will you tell them for me?”

Arthur’s eyes flick almost—but not quite—to Merlin. He’s beginning to get a sense of it, how many tales Merlin will have to tell.

“I will,” Merlin says.

Arthur stares at Lancelot, anguished. “You died for me.”

Lancelot stands to his full height, proud. “And I would do so again. You’re going to be the greatest king Albion has ever seen.”

Already, Lancelot fades, as though a wind stirs through his flesh. He’s being sucked back into the abyss.

“Wait,” Arthur says, reaching for him. “Lancelot.”

But he’s already gone.

The last thing they see is his sad smile.

* * *

 

Merlin thinks that’s the end of it.

But no.

There’s a single shade left.

It stands with its back to them, nearly translucent in the light of the moon. Merlin can just make out the body, a shapeless lump under rough cloth that might once have been scarlet, now faded like an ancient coin. Still, there’s no mistaking that stringy white hair to the shoulders.

Merlin strangles a sob. 

At the sound, the figure turns to reveal a craggy, saggy face that belies its gentle smile.

“My boy,” Gaius says. “My son.”

It’s too much.

Merlin doesn’t get to hear, whatever else Gaius might say. He loses his feet at last, sags against the wall, drained, nothing but fragile skin and a jumble of bones. His eyes roll back.

Before he falls to the stone, he feels hands on him, so many hands. The knights ignore him no longer.

“Gently, gently,” someone admonishes.

They lay him to rest. 

He thinks: It’s going to be okay.

He thinks: Gaius has come. 

He thinks: Gaius makes everything better.

And then he thinks nothing at all.

* * *

Merlin slumbers in the depths of a lake. Sunk down where it’s dark and cool and safe, where he hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing. Every so often, he’s aware of what happens on the surface far above. He glimpses trees that grasp toward the sky, smells the froth of a horse’s flank against his cheek, feels a cool cloth across his flesh. 

Sometimes, he hears a word. It sounds like the name of a person. Or perhaps a bird. But he remains nameless and formless, sunk down in the water so dark and deep. Echoes of light and life die out before they can truly reach him, before they can touch him. And this suits Merlin just fine because they should leave him alone, it’s time to sleep.

* * *

 

And so Merlin sleeps at the bottom of his lake. 

He sleeps for a thousand years.

And then, one day, it’s time to wake up.

* * *

Merlin opens his eyes.

For the first time in a long while, he can see. He can feel. Yet he wishes he couldn’t. Wishes he were back down, safe in the cool and the deep.

Now, it hurts, all of it. Everything, inside and out. His body feels as though it’s been torn apart and then put back together, ragged and jagged. Nothing feels right. Nothing seems to fit. His skin too tight, internal organs several sizes too big. Ligaments click as he shifts, testing his limbs.

His mouth tastes scorched.

A familiar lump under his shoulder blade clues him that he’s in his bed, the one in his chambers. His feet dangle just past the end. 

From the light that cracks his shutter, he sees that it’s early morning. Or perhaps early evening, hard to say. His body feels mummified, as though he’s slept for days or years. His head lolls toward a cup that someone has left by the bed.

For a moment, he’s afraid to summon the magic. Afraid that it will no longer come when he calls.

“Strangath,” he whispers through fractured lips, and the cup shivers. Although it inches toward him slowly, painfully, the cup does eventually come.

The water tastes foul, like it’s days old. It cools his swollen tongue but can do little to rejuvenate his ruined innards.

Then it hits him, the last thing he remembers.

 _Gaius_ , he thinks, and would weep but he has no tears. He clutches at himself, curling to fetal, crumbling. He heaves dry sobs, deep, hacking things.

He doesn’t even care, who might hear.

It hadn’t been a heart attack that killed Gaius that day, in a forest that should have been safe. Somehow, it was Morgana, leaving no stone unturned in her quest for Emrys.

Gaius didn’t have to die. Not like that. He should have died warm in his bed, in his sleep, surrounded by the people who loved him. He deserved that much. Instead, he was yet another victim of Morgana’s malice.

It’s a long while before Merlin can coax his body to sit up. Longer still until he can stand, can descend on shaky legs into the main chamber, a hand bracing against the wall. He half expects a pair of guards to look up from dice.

Yet the main chamber is dark and cold.

Somehow, this casual indifference is worse. As if they hadn’t cared enough to leave someone to watch him, to tend him.

Then he becomes aware of it, a weight, a presence. He’s not alone after all. A dark shape slumps on a bench against the wall. He can’t quite make out who it is. But somehow, he knows.

“Arthur?”

His head turns. From the looks of him, Arthur’s been here a while, waiting. Inexplicably, he still wears his armor. It’s dull, dirty, singed, scratched. It no longer gleams.

Fear stabs. If Arthur’s here, looking like this…

“Gwen,” Merlin says, urgent, “is she…?”

For a long while—too long—Arthur doesn’t answer. Merlin fights not to let his panic show. He’s nearly positive he sent her home to Camelot, safe and snug in Arthur’s bed. If something has happened to her—

“She’s resting,” Arthur grates, as though he hasn’t spoken in some time. Days, maybe.

Merlin can breathe again.

“Shouldn’t you be with her? Why do you sit in the dark?” Merlin asks, although he thinks he already knows. 

Again, a pause.

“Looking for woodworms.”

It could have been funny. 

But it’s not. Not even a little, Arthur’s voice dull and flat.

It means that Arthur’s been _thinking_. He’s been reliving the past decade, all of the strange things Merlin has done. All of the strange things Merlin has said. It means that he knows now that Merlin was never, ever looking for woodworms and that it’s possible woodworms don’t even exist.

Turns out, Merlin has found the woodworms. They’re crawling all over his skin. They’re gouging into his heart. 

Had this been any other day, Merlin would quip that perhaps Arthur should find some wood first if he wants to find woodworms.

Yet Merlin stays quiet. It would be easy, to slip back into their old roles. But it’s not fair to Arthur, to deflect, to pretend that anything is the same. Because it’s not. For years, Merlin used humor as a defense mechanism, to deflect Arthur’s attention where he wanted it. To _manipulate_ Arthur.

Now, he owes it to Arthur, to be himself. To be true. To allow this to go where it will.

Merlin shuffles to the hearth and tries to light a fire, it’s too _cold_ in here. But his fingers fumble. It’s been so long since he’s lit this fire with fingers. He has to think twice before he remembers where he keeps the flint. And from its desiccated feel, he’s not even sure it will work. 

“Stop pretending,” Arthur says, without color. He sounds far away, tired.

Carefully, Merlin lays down the flint. Then he stands and steps back. He _looks_ at the fire, and it comes to life. It feels wrong. Dirty, somehow, as though Arthur has witnessed some perversion. Even the flame is sniveling and sickly, low on fuel. 

Merlin turns his back on Arthur, crosses the room, and creaks open the storage closet. He extracts a few logs, then lugs them over. Slowly, he adds fuel to the flame, until it blazes hot.

Then he looks to Arthur. Even in the light of the fire, the King doesn’t look warm. He looks pale, wasted, leeched of life. From the looks of it, he hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t slept.

And his eyes.

Usually so expressive, they’re made of glass, a parody of life. The right shape, the right color, but they’re hollow, fake.

Arthur looks _dead_.

Merlin thought he knew all of Arthur’s expressions, a face more familiar than his own. He thought he knew every cant of his body. 

He was wrong.

For the first time in their long acquaintance, Merlin can’t read him. Not a whit. It’s unsettling, like looking at a stranger. 

Or an enemy.

On the bench beside Arthur lies Excalibur. They’d recovered it, then, retrieved it from the bowels of the tower. Like Arthur, it no longer glows.

Merlin unwinds from his crouch by the fire and steps, careful and slow, to a safe distance, well outside Excalibur’s arc. He doesn’t know how to arrange his limbs, unsure if he should stand or sit, stay or go, if it’s hot or cold. He feels gangly and clumsy and sixteen again.

He waits.

Watches the firelight dance off Arthur’s armor. Arthur has had time to think, time to descend into the pit. He’s been waiting for days, going over everything in his head, the way he does.

Merlin wonders how Gwaine is. Strange, that he’s not here. Unless Arthur has forbidden it. Merlin could see him do that, forbid any of Merlin’s friends access to his chambers. 

Arthur would want to be the first.

You would think, with all his thinking, that Arthur would be ready to talk. 

Merlin’s never been good with silence. “How long was I—”

Arthur withers him with a look. “I ask the questions.”

So that’s how it’s going to be. 

Merlin waits.

It takes Arthur a while, to decide on the first question. When he does, it’s not one Merlin could expect.

“You were crying. Why?”

“She killed Gaius,” he chokes.

Arthur’s hardness doesn’t dissipate. “Your conspirator.”

Merlin can’t let Arthur disparage his mentor any more than he could let Morgana. “Gaius gave his life to Camelot. He would never have—”

“He harbored a sorcerer.” So calm. So matter of fact. And Merlin can’t even dispute it. For it’s true. In Arthur’s eyes, it’s a crime.

Arthur continues, “How long have you had magic?”

It hits Merlin like a mace to the stomach, what Arthur does. They might as well be in the throne room, surrounded by the court. Arthur’s questions are detached, impersonal. As though he gathers the information he’ll need to pass judgement. Merlin has seen him do this a hundred times. 

“I was born with it.”

“Is that normal?”

“No.”

Then again, Merlin thinks it’s a good sign that Arthur has chosen to do this here. That there’s no audience. It means he’s not afraid to speak to Merlin, not afraid that Merlin might ensorcel him.

Arthur’s giving him a _chance_.

Looking for something.

A way out, perhaps.

“Why did you pretend to be my servant?” _Servant_ , he says, although he really means something else.

“I didn’t pretend.”

“You expect me to believe that a sorcerer weasels himself close to a King just to be a servant.”

“I didn’t weasel anywhere. I saved your life.”

“With magic.” He spits the word as though it’s a bite of worm-rotted fruit. 

Merlin can’t blame him. To Arthur, magic is the terror in the night, the source of nightmares, the monster under the bed. Magic took his mother, his father, his sister, his uncle. And now it’s taken his best friend.

This is going like nothing Merlin could ever expect. Arthur looks at him, and all he sees is _magic_.

“Yes.”

“So you admit it. You used magic to insinuate yourself into the royal household.”

His friend, Arthur, is a million miles away. This Arthur is all King. He hides behind the law.

“Your father is the one who made me your servant.”

At the mention of his father, Arthur’s nostrils flare. Yet he doesn’t rise to it, the bait. He’s not ready. Instead, he says, “Do you have proof?”

“You were there.”

“And yet I missed it, you using magic to save my life.”

“If I hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

“For all I know, you and that old crone were in league. You both arrived to Camelot at a similar time.”

“You’ve found me out,” Merlin snaps. “Our fiendish plot to make me your servant so I could spend ten years scrubbing your boots and laundering your socks. Oh, and emptying your bed pans. Don’t forget those.”

Something shifts in Arthur’s face, softens maybe. But he doesn’t respond to the sarcasm. Instead, it seems to give him the opening he needs to ask it, the real question he’s been waiting three days to ask.

“Did you…” he begins, and Merlin can see how much the question costs him. Whatever it is, Arthur is deathly afraid of its answer. He swallows, steels himself. “Are you the reason Gwen is with child?”

“What?” Merlin’s horrified, that Arthur could ever think this. But it makes sense. They’d struggled so long to conceive. And then for it to happen out of the blue… 

Merlin sees Arthur through new eyes. His lonely vigil outside Merlin’s chambers takes on a new meaning. He waited in agony for days, to find out if he’s to lose his wife. 

“No,” Merlin says, firmly. “No. I had nothing to do with that. _Magic_ had nothing to do with it. I would know. If someone had tried to… I would just know. Gwen is safe.”

Arthur looks desperate. “Swear it.”

“I swear. On my mother's life. I would never…” Merlin stops, reconsiders. “It’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you. About my magic. I didn’t want you to…”

Arthur seems to understand what he’s trying to say. He looks over Merlin’s head, off into the distance. “Don’t know what I would have done.”

“I didn’t want to put you in that position.”

At this, Arthur bristles. “It wasn’t your decision to make. I understand why you might have hidden this from Uther. But not from me. I’m your King, Merlin. But more than that, I was your friend.”

 _Was_ , Merlin thinks, and his blood starts to burn, the beginning of the end. However this is to end, it will not end well.

“I have three more questions.”

Their entire relationship, boiled down to three questions.

“Have you ever used sorcery to make me do something I didn’t want to do?” 

Merlin doesn’t like where this is going. “Yes, but—”

Arthur raises a hand. “A simple yes or no.”

“You’re not asking the right questions.”

Arthur persists. “Did you want Mordred to die?”

He doesn’t have to say when. It’s like Arthur has sifted through the events of the past decade and has pulled out the most damning events. Twisted them in his mind until they’ve become the most important. Until they’re the only things that matter.

Merlin shifts. “I can explain.”

“I don’t want you to explain. I want an answer.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes or no. It doesn’t get more simple.”

“But—”

Arthur slams a hand down on his bench, so hard it rattles his sword. “Answer the bloody question.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, “but you heard about the prophecy. Mordred was going to—”

“That’s enough,” Arthur roars. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh no?” Merlin says, his ire rising to meet Arthur’s, the way it always has. “Because it sounds like you want to hear all about it. If it’s mistakes you want, I’ve made loads of them. Here, let me think.” Merlin crosses his arms and taps his cheek with a finger. “I used magic to make sure you didn’t mace me to death when we met. I harbored the werewolf, Freya, helped her escape. Because of me, she killed people. I poisoned Morgana, when she put Camelot to sleep. I’m the reason your sister _turned_ on you. 

“I killed Agravaine when he discovered my secret. When Morgana fed me the fomorrah, I tried to assassinate you four times—with aconite on your food, a crossbow, a ceremonial sword, and acid in your bath. And I once put a whammy on you and turned you into a half-wit for a day.”

At each new revelation, Arthur blinks. This is what he wants, Merlin thinks. He wants Merlin to pummel him with them, all of Merlin’s failures, to make it possible for Arthur to do what must be done. And so Merlin presses on, giving Arthur exactly what he wants. He throws his arms wide.

“And oh yes, my crowning glory, I set the Great Dragon free.” At this, Arthur makes a strangled noise, deep in his chest. Merlin continues, “That’s right, the one that rained fire on Camelot. This is what you wanted, right? To hear all the ways in which I’m a monster?”

For the first time, Arthur looks uncertain. Merlin has given him more to work with than he ever could have guessed. But Arthur recovers quickly, steels his countenance. He stays the course.

“There’s one last thing,” he says, and his voice has gone deathly quiet.

Merlin knows, exactly which thing this will be.

Arthur leans forward, into the light, flames in his eyes. He peers deep into Merlin’s face and says it:

“You killed my father.”

This one, it’s not a question.

“Morgana—”

“No,” Arthur roars. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pin everything on her. She wasn’t even _there_. But you were, weren’t you? I should have known, the way that old codger spoke to me. And there was always something, about the eyes…”

He looks away, as though something about Merlin’s eyes pains him.

“I tried to save him—”

“I saw you call down _lightning_ from the sky. Yet you’re trying to tell me you couldn’t save my father?”

Merlin could try to explain. About Morgana. About her amulet. About how he’s horrific at healing. But at this point, Merlin knows it doesn’t matter. Arthur’s too far gone, won’t let him explain. He doesn’t want to hear it. Where Uther is concerned, Arthur’s never been fully rational.

So Merlin says nothing, acknowledges nothing.

Still, Arthur can see the answer in Merlin’s eyes. He makes another noise the likes of which Merlin has never heard. His eyes sheen with tears and it's that day all over again, Arthur hapless and helpless before him, telling Merlin that he’ll do anything, anything at all to save his father.

Likely Arthur doesn’t even know he does it, palms his sword. It’s habit, like breathing, in the face of a threat. The tip of Excalibur points to Merlin, the only sword that will kill a magical creature.

Arthur stands, slow and ponderous. His eyes are wild, as though he sleepwalks in a nightmare. He can’t wake up from his life.

He raises his sword. For the first time, Merlin feels it: fear, at the look in Arthur’s eyes. They’re dead no longer.

He tells himself: Arthur won’t hurt me.

A fact that used to be true.

Merlin’s fingers flex. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You killed my father.” It’s like he needs it, one more nudge.

“I tried to save him.”

“Liar!” With a broken battlecry, Arthur charges. Before he can take two steps, Merlin mutters a quick spell and the sword freezes on its downward arc toward his face, a killing blow.

The sword reverses direction and drags Arthur back and back, pinning his arm to the wall. And there the steel sticks, fused to the stone, a parody of what Morgana had done. Arthur grunts and yanks to no avail, then abandons his unruly weapon and scrabbles for another. He hefts the bench he’d been sitting on. 

Just like that, it’s the day they met all over again. How easy it is for Arthur to revert to the bully he once was, deep down so deathly afraid of what others will think. Merlin has shamed him in the eyes of his people, the person closest to him a lie, and he will have his head. He will have someone’s head.

Arthur roars and holds the bench aloft. As He throws it. Merlin increases its weight, so it goes nowhere. Falls like a boulder less than a pace from Arthur’s feet. He strains but cannot budge it No matter. The workshop is filled with things, any one of which can be a weapon in Arthur’s capable hands. Literally, as Arthur throws everything he can get his hands on, like an unruly child—pots, plates, books, rocks, they all go flying toward Merlin’s head.

It should have been absurd.

Except it’s not. 

It’s serious. In his devastation, Arthur is deadly.

The only noise is Arthur’s harsh breathing, the clatter of objects, and an occasional muttered spell. Until there are no words and Merlin operates on instinct, silent and swift. Merlin diverts things, and they crash into tables, into bookshelves, into Gaius’ work.

Together, they break things, beyond repair.

Arthur flings a beaker at his head. Merlin ducks and turns the glass to water before it splatters behind him. 

Arthur scrabbles at a nearby table and pulls up the first thing he finds.

It’s a spoon.

Merlin could laugh. He could weep.

“Arthur—”

“No, no, no,” Arthur says, and his eyes are wide, wild. “You don’t get to call me that. My friend called me that.”

He throws the spoon like a dagger, right for Merlin’s heart. Merlin melts it into rivulets of silver that spatter him harmlessly in the chest.

Arthur casts about again but there’s nothing more to throw. So Arthur bellows and throws _himself_.

And this is what Merlin does: 

Absolutely nothing.

He lets him come, lets Arthur tackle him bodily to the ground, which slaps the air from his lungs. And then Arthur’s gripping him so tight his fingerprints will brand into his flesh. He’s shaking him so that his skeleton rattles, all 206 bones of him. And then Arthur’s shoving him back and then pain blooms, here, there, and everywhere. Arthur pummels him, all of him, every part he can see.

Until Merlin sees _stars_.

And as Arthur swings his fists, he sobs something, a chant: “Stop me, stop me, gods, stop me.”

Merlin’s magic responds, welling like blood to a wound. It glistens along his skin and sparks at his fingertips and rushes in his ears like a fever.

And this he knows: If he says the word, if he opens his eyes, if he but _thinks_ it, his magic will save him, will toss Arthur back like a sack of grain, will freeze his blood in his veins, will melt Arthur’s flesh like wax, will turn him to wood, to stone, to ash.

And this he knows: It’s what Arthur wants, for Merlin to unleash himself. For Merlin to hurt him—physically, the way Merlin has hurt him emotionally, spiritually. Arthur needs them, the outward scars. Proof, that he’s right. He’s right to push Merlin away. To defend himself, his family, his kingdom.

And this he knows: For Merlin to use magic to save himself, it means hurting Arthur. But this he will never do. He won’t use magic against Arthur. Never again.

So Merlin utters not a word, makes himself a mannequin—deaf, dumb, and mute. He makes not a peep, swallows every cry. He screws his eyes shut and tries to think of nothing at all, lets Arthur pummel him like a practice dummy, until his innards come out at the seams. 

Yet he can’t stop his magic from flooding within. It turns inward, journeys through his veins like the roots of a fragile flower, repairing what damage it can, stemming the blood that blooms, the skin that ruptures.

But it’s not fast enough. Arthur’s fists are faster. They staccato “Stop me” onto his skin.

And then Merlin dips into the darkness for a bit because one moment there’s pain and there’s blood and there’s an impossible weight on his chest, he can’t breathe it smothers, and the next there’s cool air and he floats on the surface of a deep ocean and someone’s screaming at Arthur to 

 _Stop_.

And then words are angry hornets somewhere above, too far away for him to hear. Everyone speaking at once, too many people. These words, they go like this:

_He’s killing him._

_Restrain him._

_They’ve made a royal mess of things._

_Merlin_ , someone says, frantic, and then there are gentle hands on his skull and a warm lap for his head.

Throughout it all is Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, the only voice Merlin ever wants to hear. Arthur says things like:

He has magic.  
He lied.  
He killed my father.  
He was my friend.

Arthur’s words hurt more than his fists.

“He could have stopped me,” Arthur says, mangled through snot and tears. “He was supposed to—”

“Idiot,” someone hisses, and that would be Gwaine. “He didn’t want to _hurt_ you.”

“Hands off.” Arthur struggles against Percy's vise around his chest. “I’m the King.”

“Then act like one,” Gwaine snaps, spewing treason like only he can.

Through the feather-soft filter of his lashes, Merlin can just make them out—Gwaine and Percival and Leon and Elyan in a knot around Arthur, the arms that bind. And Gwen above him and all around him, fingers in his hair.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs. “It will be okay.”

She’ll make a great mother someday.

Merlin tries to smile but his face won’t work.

He closes his eyes and slips into the dark like a warm bath, deep over his head, until he drowns in it.


	16. Chapter 16

The next time Merlin sees Arthur, he’s in the throne room.

Heads crane as Merlin enters, marched in by a pair of stony-faced guards he doesn’t know. It seems that all of Camelot is here, crowded into the hall, servants and nobles and knights alike. They line the walls, fill the room to overflowing, more people than this place has seen since the royal wedding.

Here for the spectacle, Merlin supposes. Sorcery in the heart of Camelot.

He keeps his eyes front, for he’s not sure what he will see, in the faces of his former friends. He keeps his eyes on Gwen, seated on her throne. In her face, Merlin can see everything—anguish, sorrow, anger. But above all, a steely resolve. His fate is not yet decided. Whatever will happen, she will not go down without a fight. 

The throne next to her is empty. 

Merlin finds Arthur pacing in the alcove behind the throne. As Merlin draws closer, Arthur stops to stare at Merlin’s face. Pale and unblemished, proof of his magic, which has erased all trace of trauma. At least on the outside.

Oddly, it’s Geoffrey who steps to the forefront to address the court. Arthur continues to hover in the periphery. He hides behind it, the throne.

Geoffrey says, “We gather today to discuss the fate of Merlin of Ealdor, former manservant to the King of Camelot.” _Former_ , Merlin thinks, and he _hurts_. “Given the King’s personal involvement in this matter, he’s asked me to officiate.” 

Geoffrey unrolls a scroll. “Merlin is accused of crimes against Camelot, including knowingly releasing magical beasts that wreaked havoc on the city. He’s also accused of having a hand in the death of Uther Pendragon.”

Shock ripples through the room. There had always been rumors, but the official word was that Uther had been felled by an assassin’s blade.

Geoffrey silences everyone with a hand. “If anyone has anything to say on Merlin’s behalf, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

It’s ceremonial, a courtesy extended to every accused criminal. No one ever steps forward. Just as you don’t speak out at a wedding ceremony. It’s not done.

Except.

Someone steps forward. 

And not just one someone. Many someones.

It turns out, everyone has something to say. No one holds their peace. Arthur wants a round table, a round table he gets. They all speak on his behalf, everyone who knows Merlin and even some he doesn’t. Every knight, every servant, even the ones who give him the stink eye.

And this is what they say:

“He’s the first person on his knees when anyone drops something,” says a kitchen wench.

“He never speaks to us in anger,” says a chambermaid. “Not even when I bumped into him and spilled the King’s bath.”

“He was the first person to smile at me when I arrived,” says a stable boy. 

“If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here,” Gwaine says.

“He’s the best of us,” Leon says.

Even Cook speaks up: “‘Ee’s a good man, that ‘un. I’m sorry, that I threw ye that pot.”

On and on it goes, a litany of what Merlin has done for them. But more importantly, how Merlin has made them _feel_. Merlin can’t stop them, the tears that flow down his cheeks. He smiles through them.

They speak as though it’s a funeral. As though Merlin is already dead. For they know, the penalty for what he’s done.

Through it all, Merlin watches Arthur, always Arthur. He sees how Arthur flinches at each of their tributes, as a blow to his flesh. Yet he also sees that the King does not soften. He cannot.

When the tidal wave of voices recedes, when it seems as though everyone in the hall has spoken in Merlin’s favor, there’s a disturbance from somewhere in the back. A slight form weaves through the crowd. All Merlin can see is the tip of a head.

Then the person steps to the front, a few paces ahead of Merlin, clad in familiar blue and red. He looks more starched than ever, even his neckerchief folded just so.

George.

Merlin’s heart sinks. For years, George has waited for this day. Now would be the time that Arthur will listen to him, that Arthur will believe anything George might say about Merlin.

Every day of George’s life has led up to this.

And doesn’t George know it. He basks in the court’s attention, dawdling on his way to the throne. Once there, he clicks his heels smartly and bows deeply toward Arthur.

“Your highness,” he says from where his nose is practically at his knees. “If I may?”

Arthur waves a hand, giving permission. But even he looks uneasy. Gwen’s expression is tight and wary. 

George snaps ramrod straight, his eyes carefully trained at the foot of Arthur’s throne.

“I know it’s not my place to speak before such distinguished company,” he begins, and already his tone grates on Merlin’s frayed nerves. “But I find that, on this matter, it is imperative that I address the court.” 

Arthur waves again, impatient now.

“I’ve watched Merlin for these ten years,” George says. “As manservant-in-waiting to the King of Camelot, it is my duty to be ready to step in to assist his Highness at a moment’s notice, should Merlin be otherwise…occupied.” He wrinkles his nose at this distasteful thought. “I have done so on many occasions and have spent the rest of my time staying abreast of Merlin’s activities, so that I might be ready to assume his mantle with minimal to no disruption. And what I have seen is that, by all visible measures, Merlin is a truly deplorable manservant.”

George proceeds to enumerate the ways. As he does, Merlin considers a list of his own—ways to mutilate George with magic. Arthur already thinks he’s a murderer, what’s one more body?

Even Arthur stiffens.

George continues, “He doesn’t put lavender in the bath. He sometimes doesn’t change the royal bedding for three days. And don’t even get me started on his—”

“Yes, let’s not start on that,” Arthur says, hasty, as George is nothing if not thorough. “We take your word on it. Do you have a point?”

“Indeed. My point is that, although Merlin is an atrocious manservant—truly, a discredit to the station—he does have other, not entirely deplorable…” George pauses and scowls. “…qualities.” 

Merlin, who had been picturing George as a snake, replete with forked tongue, draws up. So does Arthur. For, despite the invectives, George has delivered what sounds suspiciously like a compliment.

George continues, “Given the subject’s background and disposition, I did not expect him to last a day in your employ. And yet he did. Despite the fact that Merlin is hardly qualified to be a King’s manservant—and that his years of service seem to have little effect in terms of increasing his ability—there is one area in which he’s not below average.”

Arthur almost hates to ask. “And that is…?”

“His devotion to Camelot. And to you, Sire. Everyone knows it. He won’t say a word against you and won’t suffer the same from others. Even visiting nobles. And he doesn’t take sick days.”

Arthur snorts. “You’re forgetting his numerous days in the tavern.”

George shifts, uncomfortable, as if the mere thought of such an institution might taint his sterling reputation. “As I mentioned, I’ve observed Merlin on many occasions.”

Merlin thinks, _That sneaking, skulking little snit._

“Yet not once have I observed him entering the tavern. At least, not without your lordship. I believe, Sire,” he says, delicate, “that in this case, _tavern_ is a euphemism for ‘saving Camelot by way of magic.’”

Arthur honest-to-god _gapes_.

George continues, “Given this, I can say with utter certainty that Merlin has never wished you harm. Everything he’s done has been in service of the crown. The worst possible service, to be sure, but never to harm Camelot. Merlin’s only crime has been remaining an abysmally poor servant.”

Forget ripping his bangs out or exploding his head like a pumpkin; Merlin could kiss George’s prim little feet.

Throughout it all, George never once looks at Merlin. Not even as he turns and marches back to his proper place with the other servants.

Arthur’s not the only one who’s flummoxed by this little display. No one seems to know how to follow that.

Naturally, it’s Gwen who recovers most quickly. “Thank you, George,” she says. She descends carefully from her throne, making her way to Merlin’s side. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

She faces Arthur, places a soft hand on Merlin’s elbow. It buoys him, her warmth, her strength. “He saved my life. He saved yours. He saved the life of our unborn child.”

* * *

And that’s how Camelot finds out, that Arthur and Gwen are expecting.

* * *

When the furor dies down, Arthur can no longer hide behind Geoffrey. Not after this revelation. He walks past the throne and walks among them, his people. 

“There’s no denying that Merlin has saved lives. But he’s also taken them.”

Gwaine speaks up. “We knights take lives to protect you.”

“In war, perhaps. To defend Camelot. But Merlin released a dragon that killed many citizens.”

Gwaine says, “The dragon took those lives, not Merlin.”

“There’s also the matter,” Arthur says, stiffly, “of my father.” Arthur can’t get past that. He’ll never get past that.

Leon says, gently, “Your father was dying.”

A muscle jumps in Arthur’s jaw. “Magic killed my father. The law is the law.”

“With all due respect, milord,” Gwen says, “the law is whatever you say it is.”

“I hear you. And Guinevere, your counsel has never led me wrong.” He grows expansive, speaks to the room. “I hear you all. But I’m afraid that, in this matter, none of us can see clearly. We’re too close to it, to…” For a microsecond, Arthur falters, voice rough. “…to him. He’s in our hearts. And it’s the hardest thing in the world, to root out evil from our very own heart.”

“He’s our friend,” Gwaine snaps.

“We can’t pardon people because we love them. If anything, we must be harder on those we love. We cannot condone their sin.”

 _Love_ , Merlin thinks. It won’t be enough.

Geoffrey says, “Merlin. Do you have anything to say?”

Merlin wants to laugh. He has everything to say. Enough words to fill the ocean. He could tell them the rest of the story, about the dragon, about Uther, about Morgana.

But when Merlin speaks, he doesn’t speak to Camelot. Everyone else melts away. It’s just Merlin and Arthur.

“Everything I did, I did it for you. To protect you. I was born to serve you, Arthur, and I’m proud of that. I’m proud of who you are, who you’ve become. And I understand, why you have to do this. What we’ve built, together, it’s everything. We’ve built a better world.”

It’s everything.

And yet.

It’s not enough.

Arthur looks at him for the first time. 

There are no words in their private code for _I’m sorry_.

There’s a moment, Merlin can see it in Arthur’s eyes, where this can go either way. 

Then Arthur, he’s all King. “For the crime of sorcery which led to the death of Uther Pendragon and the citizens of Camelot who were killed by the werewolf and the Great Dragon, I, Arthur Pendragon, do sentence Merlin of Ealdor…” He pauses, this isn’t easy. “…to banishment.”

The room stirs, amazed, for the penalty for murder is death. Even Geoffrey hesitates, his quill poised above the parchment on which he records the sentence, as though he hasn’t quite heard correctly. The King has mercy. He has mercy where he should have none. 

Merlin feels weak. Beside him, Gwen’s hand tightens on his forearm. Her eyes are hard. Later, there will be _words_.

Arthur’s eyes are harder. “At first light, you will leave Camelot, and you will never return. If you do, I will kill you myself.”

Arthur gestures to the guards, and they snap to Merlin’s elbows and escort him out. The last thing Merlin sees, as they turn the corner is Arthur, his shoulders bowed under the weight of what he’s done.

* * *

 

That night, Merlin doesn’t sleep.

The guards deposit him back in his chambers and ostensibly set themselves up outside. Alone he remains, although he does hear Gwaine sometime in the evening shouting that the King can stick his edicts up his you-know-what. The guards subdue him, thanks in large part to the spell Merlin whispers in his direction, the one that quells flame. It wouldn’t do, for his friend to fall with him.

Merlin spends the night putting Gaius’ chambers to rights. Cleaning up the mess he and Arthur made, using magic when he needs to. And once he starts cleaning, he finds he can’t stop. He scrubs the floors, the windows, even the leech tank. 

When he’s done, the place is tidier than it’s been in years.

George would be proud. Or at least mildly surprised.

With nothing else to occupy his hands, Merlin spends the final hour before dawn standing on a chair to peer out his window.

Before him, Camelot slumbers like a dragon, the dark hulk of it, the maze of sharp roofs like scales, smoke leaking like breath from chimneys, battlements criss-crossing like rows of teeth. Its fire has burned low, animals still curl into each other for warmth, the cocks not yet crowing. Above, the sky is flush with violet, sprinkled with a few fading stars, the barest glimmer of gold lining the horizon, some undiscovered treasure.

Merlin remembers the first time he’d stood here, the crisp air on his face, the world at his feet, so full of _possibility_. He wants to remember it always, what it looks like, smells like, _feels_ like, this place he’ll forever call home.

And so he stands above it for as long as he can, until he can no longer deny the first fingerlings of light that smooth away the stars and spread the first hint of color, making way for the sun.

Merlin closes the shutter, giving that extra nudge where it sticks, then latches it firm, with a twist so the wind can’t rip it open at inconvenient times, like when someone tries to sleep. 

* * *

 

When the guards come, they find Merlin standing and waiting in the center of the main chamber, which feels empty and foreign. Already, Merlin shoulders his trusty leather pack, his bedroll, the one that his mother had knitted for him so long ago, tucked neatly under the flap. 

Outside, the city still sleeps. Nearly no one stirs, just a few guards and stable hands that criss-cross the courtyard. 

Selfishly, Merlin hoped to see some familiar faces on his way out. Gwen and Gwaine at least. Yet the place is deserted. Merlin can’t help but feel a King’s hand in this, some misbegotten attempt at a clean break. If his friends could have come to him, they would have.

Above, Arthur’s window is dark, drapes drawn tight.

Merlin will walk out of Camelot the same way he walked in—unnoticed, unknown, alone.

The guards march him out of the castle proper, through the deserted streets of the upper town, then the lower. Familiar landmarks tug as they pass—the stables, the stocks, the water pump to which he made special trips because Arthur thinks its water tastes better. Even the Rising Sun, despite how little he frequented it.

As the guards direct Merlin round a corner, on the final descent to the citadel’s main gate, there’s some commotion ahead. Here, there are people. Lots of them.

And when they begun to turn at his approach, Merlin understands why.

They’re waiting for him.

No wonder the castle had been so deserted. Everyone he knows is here, come to see him off. Their faces blur as Merlin’s eyes fill with their own tears. He smiles so big that his cheeks hurt.

When they see him, there are smiles, there are sighs, there are tears. They crowd forward for a kind word, a handshake, a hug. They pass him along, as though he runs a gauntlet. Cook buries him in her bosom. 

Even George is there, though he looks vaguely over Merlin's head. 

“Take care of him,” Merlin says. George merely sniffs, as though the idea that he wouldn’t is ludicrous.

Leon gives him a firm handshake. Elyan a hug. Percy picks him off his feet. Gwaine favors a leg, or he might have done the same. But at least he walks. They hug, and Gwaine says, low, “Just say the word, and I’ll come with.”

“Someone needs to protect the prat.”

“Not sure he deserves it,” Gwaine mutters, and Merlin’s grip goes to steel.

“Promise me,” he says.

“For you, anything. You know that.”

Gwen is last. She wears her finery from yesterday as though, like him, she hadn’t slept. Even exhausted, she’s more beautiful than he’s ever seen, the life within shining from her eyes.

“Give him time,” she murmurs as she hugs Merlin’s neck. “That’s what I did.”

Merlin doesn’t contradict her, that he’s afraid time alone won’t be enough. Years, perhaps, to balance years of lies.

“If you need anything…” Merlin says.

Gwen nods. Her mouth quirks like it does when she won’t (will _not_ ) cry. “Take care, Merlin.” Then she raises her voice, for all to hear. “Our hearts go with you.”

Merlin turns to regard the crowd.

He raises a hand, a farewell. Everyone waves back.

It’s all Merlin can do to tear himself away, to take those final steps out the gate.

On the other side, a familiar pair of guards stand waiting to see him out. As he passes, they bow as deep as they can go.

“My lord,” one of them says, and Merlin’s heart leaps that perhaps Arthur’s come, Arthur’s here. But no, the guard’s eyes are on Merlin. The guard speaks to Merlin. He calls Merlin _lord_.

As Merlin departs, his eyes swim. He can hardly see the forest through the tears.

When he gets to the edge of the trees, he chances a look back. At Camelot, with her soaring towers and her feisty pennants snapping in the breeze. The view that has always welcomed him home.

His eyes are drawn to a stark shape—a figure that stands alone on a battlement overlooking the gate. The face is cloaked in the shadow of a hood, impossible to tell who it is. 

It’s probably just a guard or a knight.

Except.

The cloak isn’t red.

It’s blue.

Merlin doesn’t wave, for he suspects the person won’t wave back. Instead, he takes a risk. He cups a hand, whispers _forbærnan_ , and sparks a fire in his palm. Then he throws the fire into the air, scattering it like sparks.

 _Upastige draca_.

 _Rise, dragon_.

And it does. A dragon flaps forth, outlined in embers, the biggest dragon he’s ever conjured, bigger even than Kilgarrah. The fire dragon swoops up and up until it hovers above the heart of Camelot. Then it bursts into a million sparks, which drift like snow over the castle, the town.

Merlin baptizes Camelot with magic. 

It’s a peace offering.

It’s protection.

It’s a promise.

Merlin doesn't wait to see, how the person will respond. Instead, he turns and strides into the blessed cover of the trees.

He doesn’t look back.

He can’t.


	17. Chapter 17

Merlin makes it through the forest that rings Camelot like a moat. He makes it across a narrow strip of eastern plains, with their softly rolling hills and the tall grass that seems to wave farewell.

He imagines he can feel it, the moment he crosses the invisible border. Something inside him shrivels. Yet he grips the straps of his pack, squares his shoulders, and keeps walking. 

Not much longer then until he crests a rise and can see them—a clump of thatched roofs. From this distance, the village looks smaller than he remembers.

He makes it until the door to a hut creaks open to reveal his mother’s face. Until she says his name, it’s been too long (it’s always too long). Until she draws him into a warm hug, and even she is smaller and more frail than he remembered. She looks over his shoulder, hopeful, then peers into his face.

He makes it until she asks, “Where’s Arthur?”

Merlin crumbles.

* * *

 

It’s a long while before his mother can coax the story from him. At first, all he’ll tell her is that Arthur knows and that he reacted badly.

“He’s a good boy,” Hunith says. “He’ll come round.”

Merlin merely turns his face away.

He doesn’t want her to see him cry.

* * *

 

Merlin burrows deep into Ealdor for the winter.

It’s easy, to fall back to the role he had as a child. Easy to fill his hands and thoughts with chores. There’s always more to do, as in Camelot. Yet it’s also harder than he thought, to come back to this place he no longer considers home. He misses the sights and smells of the city. He lies awake at night, straining for some sound, any sound. But all he hears is a deafening silence. 

Ealdor remains unchanged, nearly the same as when he left. Except, it should have changed. There should be new faces and new huts and new crops. There should be the laughter of children.

Instead, there are the same faces and crumbling huts and fewer crops.

And there are no children.

Hunith doesn’t have to tell him—Ealdor withers on the vine. The loss of Will, of Matthew, of other able-bodied men due to Cenred’s aggressive recruiting, all of it had taken a steep toll. In too many ways, these people have been taxed beyond what they can pay. 

In another generation, Ealdor will be forgotten. History won’t remember that it had sheltered not one but two dragonlords. That it had been defended by the Prince of Camelot. That it was the birthplace of Emrys.

Ealdor will be a splotch of mud filled with nothing but rotting wood. A village of the damned.

Gone. Forgotten.

As though it never was.

The women who live here, they already know it. There’s a hunger in their gaunt faces, one that food can never fill. Single women of all ages take to dropping by Hunith’s hut at all hours. They come bearing gifts—spare herbs, sweetcakes, a dollop of honey.

At first, Merlin doesn’t understand.

“I don’t remember you being so popular,” he teases, after Widow Margery had stopped by with a corn cake that smelled worse than Cook’s pies. 

Hunith looks at him fondly, her naive little boy. “It’s not me they’ve come to see.”

Merlin goggles at her.

The Widow Margery is nearly as old as his mother.

Now that it’s stated so plainly, he can no longer ignore it. Merlin grows uncomfortable under the frank gazes, the thinly-clad invitations. He’s known these women since he was born. They’re practically family.

He can’t give them what they need.

So he can’t stay here, in this place. While Ealdor will always be close to his heart, he must leave it behind again.

He doesn’t have to tell his mother. She already knows. She already sent him off into the world once before. She will do so again. For she believes—Merlin and his magic have never been for this.

And so, even before the last snows have fully melted, Merlin shoulders his pack anew and bids his mother adieu. 

“Where will you go?” she worries, always worries.

“I don’t know,” he says.

* * *

 

Merlin walks.

At first, he walks without a purpose, following a path. All he knows is that the path leads him away from Ealdor. 

Away from Arthur.

He follows the path as far as it will take him, until it peters out, a path no more. Then he must walk across unmarked lands until he finds a new path, a new purpose. He walks where the paths take him, across all of Albion, as much of it as his feet can reach. He sees with his own eyes places he’s only ever seen on one of Arthur’s maps.

All the while, he uses his magic freely—to dissuade bandits, to aid peasants, to seek audience with warlords, to entertain Kings and Queens. He appears to them all as himself, as Merlin, with his ratty neckerchief around his neck. It no longer feels right, to pretend to be someone he’s not. Not anymore.

Every so often, he gets wind of Camelot. A snatch of conversation over a campfire or whispered words between courtesans at court. Each time, he flinches away before he can hear more. He’s unsure if he can bear it, to hear of her troubles. To hear of her triumphs. Sometimes, he’s not sure which would be worse.

The kingdom of Camelot throbs within like a wound, painful to the touch. He’s aware of it always, aware that sometimes his path takes him far. Sometimes it draws him close, so close that he can’t help but look ahead through the trees, certain he’ll spot a swathe of scarlet. He’s unsure what he’ll do if he does. He’s unsure what he’ll do if he doesn’t.

* * *

 

Then one day, he hears something he can’t ignore.

He’s found himself back in the heart of a castle—its kitchen. In payment for a service rendered to their Queen, they’re feeding him a feast fit for a King. He’d declined the offer of an actual feast, as he no longer fancies them. Instead, he sits alone in the kitchen and chews and closes his eyes and imagines that he’s home.

It works for a while, despite the peculiar spice to the food and a lilt to the voices. It works until someone says, “Did you hear?”

The kitchen is abuzz with it, some news from beyond. When he hears the word _Saxons_ , Merlin’s eyes blink open. A band of them has breached Albion. But not to pillage and destroy, as is their usual way. No, they’ve come to parlay. With Camelot.

“Isn’t the sorcerer from Camelot?” someone asks, and that someone is a kitchen maid, too timid to ask him herself. Heads swivel, all eyes on him. All eyes on Merlin.

Merlin stops chewing.

He sets down a crust of bread, brushes crumbs from his neckerchief.

Then he stands and walks from the kitchen. 

From the castle.

He doesn’t stop walking until his hands have stopped shaking. He stumbles off his path into the forest, sits at the foot of a tree, and _breathes_.

It’s coming to pass, everything a dragon had foretold. Every thing but one.

Merlin reaches in to his pocket and pulls out a coin. It gleams thick and heavy in his palm, stamped boldly on both sides with the Pendragon crest, the last remnant of his time in Camelot. His fingers have worried at it often as he walks, a steady weight against his leg. A reminder. A promise.

Merlin tosses the coin into the air, and his eyes gleam gold. When it lands, it bounces in two directions. For it’s no longer a single coin. It’s two, sliced right down the middle.

Coins can be cleaved.

Merlin leaves them in a forest where they’ve fallen, a gift for some other hapless soul who needs them more than he.

* * *

 

After that, Merlin shies away from castles, from villages, from campfires in the night. He’s not sure he can take it, further proof that Arthur and his destiny are doing just fine without him.

Instead, he decides to make himself useful and search out the remaining Druids. It’s not hard, not anymore. Not when he can dip fingers into the nearest stream and follow the water to some sign of life. It takes time, of course, to follow many streams, to find the one near which the Druids have set up their camps.

But time is what he has, so find them he does.

The survivors.

He finds them hidden in snarled forests, down treacherous ravines, their numbers woefully decimated. He coaxes them from hiding, assures them that Morgana can’t hurt them. Not anymore. 

He tells them about Mordred. Merlin couldn’t save him, but he could at least memorialize him. The Druids deserve to know, that Mordred had sacrificed himself for the future of Albion, one of their own.

And the Druids, they call him Emrys.

Mordred, not Merlin.

Oh, they know Merlin is Emrys. Somehow, they always know, even though he never has to introduce himself. Yet still they seem to understand, what Merlin is trying to tell them. What honor he seeks to bestow.

“Join us,” they say, every clan he encounters. They want him to share his magic and theirs in return. 

Merlin finds himself tempted to accept their offer. There are many things he could learn from them, things that he could never learn in Camelot. And he could help them rebuild and keep them safe, the way Arthur never could. What’s more, he could unify the scattered Druids under a new leader, grow them into a force for good across the five kingdoms—

But no. These are the thoughts of a politician, a leader. Some of Arthur’s ambition has rubbed off on him. Merlin reminds himself that the only kingdom he seeks to unify is Arthur’s. And so Merlin bids them a regretful farewell. He can’t tell them when he might return. 

He makes no promises at all.

* * *

 

Weeks pass, and Merlin finds no more Druids. He must have scouted every vein of water that flows across the width and breadth of Albion. Perhaps he’s sussed out the last of them, the woeful few that remain.

Then a brook draws him to a clearing nestled in the woods. He hasn’t sensed people here, not exactly, but he’s sensed something.

The clearing is empty.

He’s never been here before. And yet he’s seen its ilk. The earth scorched, but not from fire. Here and there, filthy tatters of fabric that could have been tents. The ground is littered with common utensils—pots, blunt knives, anything that could come to hand, when it became clear someone meant to harm. A nauseating smell clings to the trees.

Yet unlike in the vision Mordred had inadvertently shared with Merlin, there are no bodies. No charred skeletons of all shapes and sizes. Someone had the decency to bury them. But they couldn’t do anything about the land itself. Morgana’s malice will forever scar this earth.

Nothing will ever grow here.

Unless.

Merlin steps to the center of the clearing. The earth crackles beneath his boots. He turns a slow circle, inspecting the task before him. Then he drops to a crouch and plunges his hands into the earth. The soil softens for him, becomes pliable like clay. He sinks into it, to the elbows, then beyond, until he lies prone on the ground, soil to his shoulders, reaching into the earth as deep as he can go.

He presses a cheek to the ground and closes his eyes.

This time, he doesn’t seek to maim and destroy.

This time, he seeks to heal.

He’s never been good at it, healing. But maybe it will be different when what he seeks to heal is the earth. 

And it is. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes to feel that it’s working. His magic streams from the roots of his fingertips and floods the soil, as mighty as an army of industrious ants. 

The ground around him goes to mud, sinking all evidence of the camp. Tent poles and pots and spoons melt into the softened earth, buried along with their owners. Slowly, the motes of Merlin’s magic cleanse the area of Morgana’s malice, of the blood she spilled. When he’s done, he can feel that the earth is smooth and healthy. Already, shoots of grass begin to struggle their way through the newly-fertile soil.

Perhaps, one day, someone might even live here again.

Merlin has just started to uproot himself from the ground when he feels it—a prickle and tickle on his flesh. Water particles call to him, as if imploring that he look deeper.

So deeper he looks. He follows dew drops in the soil as though they’re breadcrumbs to some buried treasure. The water leads him down, down, gaining speed as it siphons from the soil and coalesces into a trickle. The barest of water cascades down the wall of a cavern deep within the earth. Beneath the water, the rock is furry with lichen. 

Merlin’s eyes snap open.

He’s momentarily blinded by it, the light.

Then he rips his hands from the ground, pushes to his feet, and _runs_.

* * *

 

He traces the water’s path as it leads him deeper into the wild forest, with its roots that trip and brambles that grip.

The water leads him to a hill overgrown with ivy. Merlin might have missed it, might have loped on by, except for the water’s nudge. _Here_ , it seems to say. _Look closer_. Merlin waves a hand, and the ivy curls away, exposing a narrow crevasse hardly big enough for a man, even one as slight as Merlin.

He sucks in a breath and slips into the crack. Rock slices at his flesh, snatches at a leg. He wrenches free and slides deeper. 

Down, down, it takes him. 

He’d hoped that perhaps the corridor would widen as he descends, but it does the opposite. The earth seems to tighten around him until he can hardly breathe. Too close, spiders scuttle, lizards wriggle, all manner of creepy crawlies scamper.

Merlin’s wrung out between rocks.

Yet onward he presses, until at last the rocks spew him forth into the cavern that the water had shown him. 

He sparks a light in his palm. It grows to become a globe and drifts up and up until it alights in the roof.

In the gloom, eyes shine. So many eyes. Children of all ages slink from crooks and crannies, blinking madly in the unaccustomed light. He counts maybe twenty. Some are nearly as tall as he is, others wouldn’t graze his kneecap.

All of them wear the simple, colorless clothing of the Druids. All of them are filthy and starving, from the looks of their necks, their wrists. Merlin watches as one of the littlest boys plucks a spider from a rock and shoves it in his mouth. One of the feet protrudes from between his lips as he crunches.

The children try to remain stoic, the Druid way. But one of the little girls can contain herself no longer. She flings herself forward and wraps herself around Merlin’s leg. Her head is barely as high as Merlin’s knee, hair a matted filth, lips gray.

It’s as though she’s broken some barrier. The other children all crowd around him now, little hands patting at him to make sure he’s real. All but the eldest boy, who hangs back and remains wary, a rock in both hands.

When Merlin meets his eyes, he raises his chin, defiant.

“They told us to hide until they came for us,” he says. “But they’re dead, aren’t they?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, not here down in the deep and dark. Instead, he holds out a hand to the little girl. 

He leads them back to the surface, a child in each hand and two on his back. This time, he nudges the earth open. Carves a path for them through the rock, so they no longer have to stoop, to crawl. 

His orb lights the way.

That night, they camp by a stream, the first fresh water the children have had in months. Merlin also summons a brace of rabbits and topples several nests filled with fat eggs. They feast. As the fire and the food loosen their tongues, they tell him their story. How the darkly beautiful woman had come, how their elders had told them to run.

The eldest boy is Brien, a gangly, angry fourteen. He’s the one who led the children down, who kept them safe. Who made fire with his eyes. Taught them which insects and frogs are safe to eat. Showed them how to lick water from the walls.

Merlin tells them a story of his own, the one about the stoic young druid boy who went on to defy an evil prophecy and assume the mantle of Emrys.

They frown. “But you’re Emrys.”

He’s no longer surprised, when even the children know. As Mordred had known. But for once, he wants to know _how_. “Why do you call me that?”

“You talk to the earth. You call forth light. You saved us.”

So Merlin must explain to them that such a great destiny belongs to no single person. It belongs to them all. Together, he tells them, we will bring magic back to the land. Already, it comes. Can you feel it?

He wants them to believe.

But he’s no longer sure he can.

* * *

 

They sleep curled together like a pack of wolves. In the morning, the children cling, plead to go with him.

He disengages them gently. “There’s something I must do. Alone.”

Brien’s surly. “So you abandon us as well. Where are we to go?”

Merlin considers this. His first thought is to send them to the Druid encampment from a few weeks earlier. Then he reconsiders, for it’s a long walk, and the bedraggled band had already had enough young mouths to feed. His second thought is Camelot. But Camelot’s not ready for them. Not yet.

Instead, he says, “I know a place.”

Merlin leaves them with watery smiles and a map tucked into Brien’s back pocket. It will take them to Ealdor, where they will ask for Hunith. She’ll know how to help them, has always had a soft spot for those with magic.

There will be children again in Ealdor.

The little girl who’d clutched at his knee—Thea—tugs him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. Now that she’s bathed, her hair is a riot of dark curls.

“You’ll always be my Emrys,” she says.

* * *

 

Then Merlin is alone again.

He’s accomplished his self-appointed quest, found all the Druids that can be found and buried the rest. Now, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Without Arthur, he’s unsure what he’s _for_.

Restless, he walks.

* * *

 

And walks and walks and walks.

* * *

 

Until he comes to a mountain.

Normally, Merlin would go around the mountain. For it’s a rather steep mountain, too steep even for trees. Too steep for people. And it’s always too cold at the top of mountains.

But this mountain, Merlin starts to climb. He walks up and up until he can sit at the top of this mountain. From here, he can see in all directions, much of Albion and the barest sliver of sea beyond.

Here Merlin sits.

He waits.

* * *

 

She sneaks up on him in an early morning’s mist.

It’s drawn close around his mountain, so he can no longer see in all directions.

One moment, Merlin’s stoking a sleepy fire, trying to coax it (and himself) awake. The next, his fire is guttered in a mighty wind, the flap of wings.

He should have heard her coming. She must have glided for miles, held aloft by the breeze, to take him so unawares.

Already, Aithusa breathes a plume of fire. Merlin deflects it and, for one brief moment of spite, considers ricocheting it back at her, to see how she likes it.

He doesn’t.

She’s already livid enough.

It takes her several hours to stop trying to kill him. She circles his mountain like a buzzard, waiting for him to lower his guard. She seems determined to barbecue him to a crisp.

Merlin could make her stop, but it seems insensitive. He thinks maybe she needs this, to let out her grief. Whatever else Morgana was, she was also a friend. Better Aithusa rage at him than some unsuspecting village.

She can’t forgive Merlin for sending her away from Morgana’s final battle. She can’t forgive him for making her leave her friend to die.

“I didn’t kill her,” he shouts. But that doesn’t stop Aithusa from trying to kill him.

Can a dragon kill a dragonlord? Merlin doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to find out.

“I’m sorry,” he calls to her at regular intervals. She doesn’t seem to hear.

It’s only after she’s worn herself out, after she’s hoarse from shrieking and has gone wobbly in the wings and can only wheeze weak tendrils of smoke that she finally lands on the mountain. She lumbers toward Merlin, more quickly than he’s ever seen a dragon move. So much bigger than when he last saw her, no higher than his waist. Now, he must look up and up to see her. 

For a terrifying moment, Merlin thinks she might try to rake him with her claws. Or bury him beneath her bulk. He’s about to throw up a palm and do who knows what when she collapses off her feet. The mountain shivers, and Merlin slips, falling ignominiously to his rump. 

Aithusa’s head falls toward him, neck arcing gracefully, felled like a tree in the forest. Down, down, light as a feather, until she places her head in his lap.

And then she sobs, great swollen dragon’s tears.

Merlin freezes, having no idea that a dragon could cry, much less what one is supposed to do about it. He settles for stroking her ridged brow, careful to keep his hands well away from her mouth and nostrils. They sit and feel wretched together. He’s the worst dragonlord ever.

When she’s cried herself out, and thoroughly drenched him in the process, Merlin dares to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her again because he really, really is. “I had to send you away. I didn’t want you to get hurt. You’re the last of your kind.”

At that, Aithusa lifts her head. She pins him with one gleaming eye. Her mouth opens, right in his face. 

But she doesn’t bite him, doesn’t use her wicked teeth to rend him limb from limb. She’s so close and so large, he’s unsure if he could stop her in time. She could strike so very quick, like a scorpion.

Instead, she inhales and speaks to him for the very first time.

“So was she.”

* * *

 

Merlin had forgotten how terrifying it is, to fly on the back of a dragon. He’d not fully grasped how ancient Kilgarrah was, sedate and slow. Compared to him, Aithusa is a wriggly puppy. It’s all Merlin can do to hold on. Her scales are impossibly slippery, and her gait is ungainly at best.

Sometimes, it seems Aithusa _wants_ him to fall. 

But no, she wouldn’t.

If he dies, her race dies with her.

Aithusa came back to find him because she’d completed the quest he’d assigned her many months earlier. A ruse to send her away from the battle with Morgana, yes, but also an errand.

He’d asked her to find something.

It took much longer than he would have expected, but she’d found it.

Now, she wings him across Albion, to its farthest border, the place where land bleeds into an endless sea. Yet still she flies beyond, until all that surrounds them is water. They fly for hours, over an ocean so deep that Merlin can’t see the bottom, even when he Looks.

At long last, Merlin spies it in the distance—a speck of land that peeks up above the waves. As they draw closer and Aithusa glides lower, Merlin sees that the island is bigger than he would have guessed, nearly all of its surface covered in a thick carpet of vegetation. An emerald jewel in a lost sea.

Aithusa descends toward it until she alights on a narrow strip of sand that’s as dark as her flesh is white. She waits until he slides from her back. Then she rears up and flaps back into the sky, kicking sand into his eyes. Winging back from whence they’d come.

“Great,” Merlin mutters to himself. “I’ve been marooned on a deserted island.”

He wonders, if this is Aithusa’s revenge.

The air smells of salt and he's wearing too many clothes. Merlin shucks his outer jacket and rolls up his red tunic at the sleeves. He never thought he’d be thankful for how thin it is.

The sun scorches. Merlin trudges off the beach toward the shade and oh lovely, now he’s got sand in his boots. He stops in the fringes of the tropical forest and finds a log. It’s nearly covered in encroaching flora, vines and leaves and lichen. He can’t even tell what type of tree it used to be. Or even where it came from. The other trees in the area are strange, thin yet tall, with abnormally large fronds for leaves.

This is like no forest he’s ever seen.

Merlin’s just finished dumping sand from his second boot when the log beneath him _twitches_. It so startles him that he topples backward.

After he brushes himself off—that sand goes _everywhere_ —he inspects the log more closely. And what he finds is that the log isn't a log at all. Barefoot now, Merlin follows the non-log as it grows bigger and bigger. Eventually, it joins with a mound of what looks to be earth, a mini-mountain nestled between the strange trees. The surface of the mound is overgrown, impossible to tell what lies beneath. 

No matter what he does, Merlin can’t get the mountain to move. He pokes it with a stick. Then a toe. Then a tendril of his magic.

Perhaps he’d merely imagined the twitch of the tail.

Merlin skirts the mountain. Picks his way gingerly through the terrain, regretting leaving his boots behind. This place reminds him a bit of the Impenetrable Forest, with its draping vines and close-grown vegetation. Yet this jungle is filled with light and life. It seeks not to prevent but to shelter.

To cocoon.

Merlin follows the ridge of the mountain until it begins to taper anew. Here, the vegetation is more sparse. There are glimpses of them now between the vines—scales. He follows a long neck until he comes to a small lump that must be the head.

“Kilgarrah?” he calls.

Impossible to tell, if the dragon hears. He hadn’t stirred at Merlin’s approach. And there’s no movement in the cavity of his chest. For all Merlin knows, the twitch of his tail could have been a death throe.

Perhaps Merlin has come too late.

The dragon is already dead.

It would explain why it took Aithusa so long to find her kin. She searched for a corpse.

…a corpse that is currently _looking_ at him.

Merlin realizes that the strange yellow plant near his feet that has captured his attention isn’t a plant at all. It’s an eye. A dull yellow eye. Kilgarrah’s eye has cracked the barest slit.

Merlin shifts right, then left. The pupil tracks his movement, sluggish. A good sign. Then why doesn't the dragon speak? It hits him—perhaps he can’t. Maybe his massive jaw has fused shut, rusted like ancient armor.

And so Merlin calls out to a dragon the same way it had first called to him.

_Kilgarrah. Old friend._

He touches Kilgarrah’s mind. Or that was his intent, but what really happens is that Merlin falls into a vast ocean from a great height. Kilgarrah’s mind is so much more expansive than Merlin could ever have imagined. He can hardly fathom it, the lifetimes that Kilgarrah has lived through. He catches glimpses of them, kingdoms that have come and gone, humans he’s known, so many faces.

Before he can drown in them, the memories, someone picks him up by the scruff of his neck, as it were, and drops him back into his own body.

A voice speaks: “Of all the people I’ve known, you, young warlock, have been my favorite.”

Kilgarrah’s lips don’t move, but Merlin can hear him as clear as always. The sound rattles in his skull.

“I bet you say that to all the dragonlords.”

Kilgarrah makes a faint noise, like a rustle of leaves. It could almost be a chuckle. “If you’d been anyone else, I would already have batted you into the sea. Aithusa should have known better. A dragon’s resting place is sacred.”

…which explains why Aithusa had abandoned him so quickly.

“She said most dragons head south. To the ice.” She’d described an icy island in forbidding seas, where no man had ever set foot.

“Most dragons did not spend twenty years in the dark.”

Sun, Merlin thinks. The dragon wants sun. He’s baking himself like a lizard on a rock. Which, Merlin realizes, is exactly what he is. Kilgarrah has chosen his deathbed well. A tiny island in the middle of nowhere, unsullied by the likes of man. Where he can truly rest in peace.

Kilgarrah blinks. “I hope you didn’t come all this way just to say goodbye.”

“Of course not.”

“Then let me guess. Things have fallen apart with Arthur, your life is over, so you’ve come to ask me what to do next.”

“Not exactly,” Merlin says. He’d forgotten how blasé the dragon can be about the petty lives of men. “I’m done with the future. Destiny, prophecy, it’s all rubbish, isn’t it? The crystals show too many paths.”

“There are many threads, it’s true, but only a few gleam golden on the loom. This was always the path we hoped you’d follow.”

“We?”

“The few of us who could see it.”

Merlin considers this. “I fear we have lost our way.”

“So I was right. Arthur has cast you out.” Kilgarrah gentles at the naked misery on Merlin’s face. “Take heart, young warlock. On another path, closely tied to this one, your Arthur is already dead.”

Merlin’s not sure how this is supposed to make him feel better. Somewhere, somehow, there’s a Merlin without his Arthur. He doesn’t even have to ask how it happened. He’s _seen_ it. He sees it still, in his nightmares.

“I kept Arthur alive, but at what price? Perhaps our estrangement is the cost of his life.” The thought is beyond glum.

“Where there is life, there is hope.”

Merlin cocks his head. “You’re going soft. That almost made sense. Is that a prophecy?”

“Merely common sense. Like you, I grow weary of the future. It’s exhausting, following so many threads to see where they might lead. When I was in the cave, it’s the only thing I had to occupy my time. Now, I just want to die in peace.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Kilgarrah’s pupil sharpens. “What do you mean?”

“For once, I didn’t come for your help. I came to help _you_.”

“Merlin,” the dragon says, with a tinge of exasperation, and it's accompanied by a flash of memory—Kilgarrah batting away a cadre of knights, ineffective as insects. “I’m not ill. You can’t heal me. Not that I’d trust your paltry skills in that area.”

“I’m not offering to heal you.”

“Now who’s speaking in circles?”

“I’ve learned from the master.”

Kilgarrah warms at that. He considers it a _compliment_. “If you’re not here to heal me, then why have you come?”

“To kill you.”

* * *

 

On the trip over, Merlin had worried about what Kilgarrah would say, if he would even accept the offer. He also worried about what he would do if the dragon did accept. Merlin’s never had the heart for killing things.

Turns out, he needn’t have worried.

The island that Kilgarrah has chosen is not only warm and sunny. It’s also been formed by molten rock that squeezed to the surface. Merlin can still feel it, swirling somewhere deep below, deeper than he’s ever been.

Kilgarrah slumbers on the mouth of a volcano. It’s only a matter of time until it erupts anew. Years, maybe. Hundreds of them. But Kilgarrah is willing to wait.

Now, he won’t have to.

Just as it is the duty of a dragonlord to help a dragon be born, so it is their duty to help a dragon die.

It’s almost easy for Merlin to reach into the earth, farther than he’s ever reached, and foment the fire in the deep. Already, it rises. The earth rumbles beneath his feet, sends him to a knee.

Kilgarrah’s _gleeful_. He’s breathing now, pupils blown wide, great huffs of air that sizzle and send sand skittering. There’s grit in Merlin’s hair and down his shirt and in his eyes. He must step back, and back again, until he’s retreated all the way to the beach, water nipping at his heels.

Merlin can’t stay much longer, not if he wants to live. He’d thought the sand hot before. Now, it burns, scorching his feet. Behind him, the water rages and swells, disturbed. 

But there’s nowhere for him to run. And he’s too far out to swim.

Perhaps he hadn’t thought this through. He’s done this so many times before, leap before he looks.

So now there’s only one thing he can do.

Merlin closes his eyes.

He leaps.

 


	18. Chapter 18

As the earth begins to roil under a dragon, something begins to roil within a womb. 

Camelot’s new physician had ordered Gwen abed weeks ago, but she’d negotiated with him about where this bed could be. Which is why she now reclines under a makeshift dais on the sidelines of the practice field, knitting what must be the hundredth tiny tunic. She’s propped by a small army of pillows and attended by a bevy of handmaidens who are under strict instructions to keep the Queen off her feet. 

The knights have learned that, should their eyes wander to said handmaidens, they’ll soon feel the flat of Arthur’s sword. This is why Arthur ordinarily doesn’t allow the fairer sex anywhere near the practice field. But he can deny Gwen nothing. Not now, when time is precious. She tries to hide the strain from him, but he knows her too well. She hasn’t been the same, not since the Dark Tower. Privately, they wonder if Morgana had done something.

They might never know—Arthur banished the only person who could have told them.

Practice winds down for the day. Only the most skilled knights remain, the ones who haven’t taken a tumble and trudged back to the castle in disgrace. Most of the usual onlookers have called it a morning and wandered back into town for their midday meal. 

The perfect opportunity.

Arthur ends practice and waits until the knights have started their trek back toward the castle gates before he calls out. “Gwaine, a word.”

The Queen looks up from where she’s trying—and failing—to help pack up. “Arthur,” she warns lowly, likely having guessed his intent. Arthur turns a deaf ear and steps back onto the field, a sword in each hand. This must happen. He’s let it go on for too long as it is.

Gwaine has been sullen for months. Despite the new physician's unctuous manner, he has proven not entirely inept. Under the man's ministrations, Gwaine's body has healed, slow and steady, fortified by bouts of prolific cursing. Yet the improvement in his flesh has done little for his mood. The knight's quick wit, once jovial, has turned nasty. Now that he's back on his feet, a slight limp the only visible evidence of his ordeal, he wastes no opportunity to aim snide barbs at Arthur. Many of them are just shy of treason.

In the beginning, Arthur ignored him, for everyone mourns in their own way. So he gave Gwaine ample time and space to work through it on his own and settle down. Or decide to leave, as was more likely. But it’s become increasingly clear that Gwaine can’t let this go. And he shows no sign of going on his merry way. Once a nomad without a care or kingdom, Gwaine has found something worth sticking around and fighting for.

Unfortunately, it’s no longer Arthur.

Perhaps it never was.

Even now, it seems Gwaine might ignore Arthur’s summons. But when Leon and Percy stop walking and peer at Arthur curiously, Gwaine can no longer feign ignorance. He claps Leon on the back. “I’ll see what the princess wants,” he says, too loud, and detaches from the group.

“Shall we stay, Sire?” Leon asks. Like Gwen, he’s anxious.

Arthur keeps his eyes trained on Gwaine. “That won’t be necessary.”

The knights side-eye each other, then turn to hurry back up to the castle to find the nearest window from which to spy. They won’t want to miss this.

Stoic, Arthur stares Gwaine down as he saunters back onto the practice field and plants himself a few paces away.

The knight gives a mock bow, too shallow for true deference. “My lord,” he says. His bright smile doesn’t quite mask what’s beneath.

In response, Arthur tosses a sword at his feet.

The smile wipes. “What’s this?”

Arthur swirls his own sword. “Something I should have done months ago.”

With no further warning, Arthur attacks. Gwaine scoops the sword just in time to stay the first strike. They break and circle, assessing. Idly, Arthur notices that Gwaine doesn't limp, not once.

“Arthur,” Gwen calls again, and there’s something in her voice. No doubt she’s worried this will go too far. But Arthur, he’s not worried. It’s what he wants. And Gwaine, too, from the looks of him. He’s alert and almost eager.

The knight needs this.

They both need it.

Without another word, they get to it.

They don’t start slow, for they’re past that. They go straight to furious, serious volleys that push each of them to their limits. For years, they’ve joked about a winner-takes-all match in which they once and for all find out who’s the better swordsman.

Arthur has been trained to swing a sword since birth. He’s studied under some of the most accomplished swordsmen in Albion, the ones whose skill was great enough to keep them alive year after year. Gwaine had no such tutors, preferring instead to pit himself against bully after bully to see who might come out ahead. 

But what Gwaine lacks in precision, he makes up for in passion. His blows shiver the bones in Arthur’s arm. And Gwaine has something Arthur doesn’t—certainty. He’s lit from within with a holy fervor, the knowledge that, where Merlin is concerned, he’s in the _right_. 

Arthur can make no such claim.

For years, Arthur has suspected Gwaine holds back. On this day, his suspicions are confirmed. Arthur has rarely fought with someone so evenly matched. Despite how often he asks them not to, most of his friendly opponents can’t help but pull their punches. No one can ever forget he’s their King. No one except Gwaine.

Gwaine fights like a snow leopard, wild and elusive. You would never know that a witch had crumpled him in her fist. Yet the knight isn’t infallible. He steps to the right, leaving his left flank exposed. It’s one of the myriad of minute flaws in his style, the ones Arthur had mentally catalogued within a week of knowing him. Ordinarily, Arthur would have him on his back, a lesson not soon forgot. But today, Arthur doesn’t seek to instruct. 

“Left,” Arthur says, and taps Gwaine’s waist with the broad end of his sword. Gwaine goes off-balance, and Arthur follows up with a series of rapid blows. “Left. Right. Legs. Head.” It’s insulting, the way he talks to a new recruit. “Come on Gwaine. Where’s that fabled prowess I’ve heard so much about in the tavern? I expected more from you.”

“And I from you,” Gwaine says. He isn’t talking about the swordplay.

Arthur presses on. “It’s as though you’ve learned nothing. Your passions control you. Always have. Everyone knows how to get you angry.”

If Arthur’s reflexes had been any slower, Gwaine’s sword would have grazed his jugular. “At least when I’m angry, I don’t injure my friends.”

“A King doesn’t have friends.”

“Well, not anymore.”

They grapple. Arthur stares right in his face. “If I’ve disappointed you so, why do you stay?”

“I made a promise.” Gwaine shoves back and away.

“Then I release you from it.”

“It wasn’t to you.”

They clash anew. They’re past the point of elegance or even honor, exhausted from a hard day’s training and months of grinding at each other’s edges. The fight degrades as their strength wanes, until their swords tangle awkwardly and one of them _twists_. 

Their weapons scatter. Gwaine stretches for one, but Arthur yanks on his hair (serves him right, the dandy). Then all bets are off and it’s an outright brawl, swords abandoned for fists and feet. They scuffle in the dirt.

“Just how you like it,” Arthur grunts. “In the mud like a pig.”

Gwaine retaliates by grinding his cheek into it.

It’s brutal, it’s messy, it’s cathartic. Arthur hasn’t felt this alive in months. 

Until somehow, Gwaine gets his hands on a fallen sword. In a flash, the tip of it is pressed to Arthur’s throat. They stare at each other, Gwaine’s face slack with surprise.

Arthur should do something, anything. Lash out. Roll out. Twirl and sweep out Gwaine’s feet. Instead, he stays still. He’s no longer angry or afraid or even ashamed. For the first time in months, he’s at _peace_. There’s a moment of perfect clarity between them, a shared understanding. Gwaine could absolutely do this. And Arthur _wants_ him to. It’s no more than he deserves.

But before either of them can move, before they can find out what Gwaine would dare do to a King, there’s a flurry on the sidelines. Handmaidens flap and squawk like startled geese around a figure that’s collapsed into a heap of purple silk.

Turns out, Gwen had been trying to warn Arthur of something else entirely.

Gwaine drops his sword to the dust.

Arthur staggers to his feet and _runs_.

* * *

 

Labor begins, but what they don’t tell you is that it never ends. The physician had said it wouldn’t be easy, but this. This is a waking nightmare. They’re three days in—three endless, sleepless days of thrashing and moaning and words that were never meant to pass lips—when Arthur breaks.

“What can I do?” he asks, desperate.

The physician only shakes his head. The man won’t quite meet his eyes. Arthur misses Gaius something fierce. He never would have let on so clearly. 

Arthur understands now, why his father went a little mad.

Only when Gwen falls into a fitful, impossible sleep of the utterly exhausted does Arthur dare leave her side.

“Get some rest,” the physician advises, but Arthur doesn’t. He can’t find rest, not at a time like this. And so he stalks the halls of his castle, knowing not whence he goes but knowing only that he must escape. Everywhere he looks, people are on high alert, as though they’re under siege. Servants slip and scurry, their faces pinched with worry. They look to Arthur as though he can offer hope.

But he turns his face away, none to give.

When he can no longer bear their sorrow, he diverts down lesser-trod corridors, to the farthest reaches of the keep, until the walls hem in and there’s no way out. Then lo and behold, there’s a staircase. Arthur heads up and up, to the top of the tallest tower in the land. 

He braces himself on the battlement, looking out at a vista that is as familiar to him as the callouses on his palm. Yet for the first time in too long, he doesn’t see her overlaid with dotted lines on a map. He doesn’t see patrol routes or disputed regions or the most likely places for an ambush. He looks beyond to see her as she is, a land full of life, rife with greens and reds and blues and everything in between.

And somewhere out there, beyond the borders of his land, farther than any eye can see, is a person who's never far from his thoughts. Yet Arthur doesn’t speak his name, not to anyone. He catches wind of him every now and again. Patrols bring word of a young sorcerer who walks the land, making no secret of his magic. He wears Camelot crimson around his neck and performs feats of magic the likes of which Albion has never seen.

Already, his legend grows. There are tales of barren fields gone lush, vanquishing of terrorizing creatures, miraculous healing of age-old maladies, and even a lake forged where there was none before. Although surely that last is exaggerated.

Arthur knows the incidents aren’t random.

They’re a message.

 _See?_ Merlin shows him. _Magic can be used for good._

Word is that the sorcerer doles out help to anyone who would ask, nobility and peasant alike. Three days in, and Arthur will do anything.

“Help me,” he says. “Please.”

But there’s no answer, not even the wind.

Arthur tarries in the tower as long as he dares. Hoping against hope that Merlin is attuned to him somehow, that he might hear, that he might magic himself to Arthur’s side. But Arthur knows, in his heart of hearts, that he doesn’t deserve it. Not after what he’s done.

He cast Merlin and his magic from the land.

Now, he will pay the price.

* * *

 

Eventually, Arthur can delay no longer. He can sense the end is nigh, the fading of the sun. And so he descends from the tower and drags himself back through the castle corridors. Too wrapped up in his own grief, he doesn’t immediately notice it—the undercurrent.

Whereas before the servants had looked to him for hope, now they’re furtive, quick to look away. They avert their eyes or shunt down side corridors before he can intercept them.

Something’s happened.

And no one wants to be the one to tell him.

Arthur picks up his pace, cursing himself for his weakness. He should never have left her. He should have stayed, should have been there to hold her hand. Frantic, Arthur breaks into a flat-out sprint.

He careens around a corner to find a hornet’s nest of activity in his corridor. Servants buzz in and out of his chambers. His physician stands in a knot of his assistants, red-faced and gesticulating wildly.

When the man spies the King, blood drains from his face. “Your highness,” he squeaks. “I hope you know that I have done my utmost for the Queen…”

Arthur elbows his way past and throws open the door.

Inside, it’s a war zone. More people flit here and there, stoking the fire, hefting armfuls of blankets, pails of water, bunches of herbs. Arthur has seen less chaos on the battlefield.

Amid all of it lies Gwen. She’s wan and still, eyes closed. Of course. They would have waited for him to cover her with the sheet. He needs to say goodbye. But Arthur’s stuck in the doorway. He doesn’t want to take them, those last steps. He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

Arthur takes a step.

Gwen shifts. She moans. Her head rolls away. Arthur’s heart surges with hope.

Not dead, then.

Not yet.

Which means that this chaos is a last-ditch attempt to save her. Yet Arthur’s physician is flailing about in the hall. Instead, Arthur becomes aware of another figure, standing at the center of the maelstrom.

He can only stare.

His hair is longer and more ragged than Arthur has ever seen, curling over the cherry-red tips of his ears, the first scruff of a beard. Clothing simple and drab, a far cry from its usual bright hues. And he’s not wearing his neckerchief.

It’s Merlin. Inconceivable, incandescent Merlin.

“Water,” Merlin barks. “And blankets. And for gods’ sake, someone get me some sticklewort.”

No one even looks to Arthur for permission. They all scamper off to do as Merlin says, such is the power in his voice, which is deeper and richer than Arthur remembers. Merlin watches them go, seemingly lost in thought. Then his eyes lift to Arthur’s. Gaze sure and steady, betraying nothing. As though he’d known Arthur was there the whole time.

They look at each other.

Arthur walks right up and demands, “How did you get in here?”

Merlin goes wary. “I walked?”

“You’re not wearing any shoes.”

Merlin looks down. “Oh,” he says. He waggles his toes. They’re dirty. “I seem to have buried them under a volcano.”

It’s one of those absurd things that only Merlin would say, the type of statement Arthur had always disregarded as ridiculous. Like when Merlin jokes about how many times he’s saved Arthur’s life. For the first time, Arthur’s not so sure. But they can’t go into that now because—

“Did you order my physician away?”

Merlin smiles, but it’s not his real smile. “He won’t like what I’m about to do.”

And just like that, panic grips Arthur’s chest, tighter than any armor. It’s too easy, to see Dragoon in Merlin’s tired eyes. Arthur wonders how he never saw it before. Merlin seems to read it, the distress Arthur is sure he hasn’t let seep into his face. He steps closer, but not as close as he once would have.

“Arthur,” he says, and touches Arthur’s sleeve, feather-soft and fleeting. Arthur finds an anchor in Merlin’s face. “I can do this.”

Arthur wants to believe him, wants to believe more than he’s wanted anything. But they’ve stood here before. “How will this time be any different?”

Arthur can’t stand by and watch, not again. Already, his fingers itch to find his sword, the one he keeps in a scabbard by the bed. The one he sometimes whips out in the middle of the night, in response to noises and nightmares. He needs the security of it, the weight of it in his palm. Without it, he’s nothing but a man.

“Because,” Merlin says, “This time, I’m Merlin.”

More nonsense, but something eases in Arthur’s chest. This isn’t Dragoon. This is _Merlin_. It matters, that Merlin no longer has to hide.

Arthur jerks. Merlin interprets this as permission and steps to Gwen’s side before Arthur can think again. He eases himself onto the mattress, careful not to jostle her. Then he brings one of her limp hands to his lips.

The touch rouses her. Puffy eyes crack to slits. “You’re here,” she breathes.

“Milady,” Merlin says.

“You don’t have to call me that.” Her voice is fractured, the words barely words. But Merlin understands. He smiles for her, and it’s almost his real smile.

“To me, you’ve always been a Queen.”

Gwen huffs, almost a laugh. “And you’ve always been a charmer.” Her laugh devolves into a cough that racks her frame, leaving her grimacing in pain.

“My one redeeming quality,” he says lightly, but his sharp eyes miss nothing of the way she breathes, the way she moves. “By your leave, I’m going to help you.”

Gwen sighs. “You always have.” Her eyes drift closed, looking for a moment more peaceful than she’s been in weeks.

Arthur can’t help but feel sick, at how willingly she entrusts her life to magic. She doesn’t know what Arthur knows. Arthur’s been here before, standing watch over a sickbed while a sorcerer tries to cheat death.

He knows how this ends.

“Just,” Merlin says. “Let me.”

This time, there’s no flashy ceremony, no smoke, no guttural incantations. Just Merlin’s crooked, familiar fingers on Gwen’s distended flesh. So bloated she looks like a corpse. For an eternity, Merlin doesn’t move. Head bowed, hands clasped on her stomach, eyelids limned in gold. Every so often, his chapped lips mouth some silent spell.

Arthur clutches at the back of a chair, the only thing holding him upright. He’s nearly gnawed off his own tongue with the effort not to speak, to demand to know what in Uther’s name Merlin is doing. That’s the problem with magic—you can’t _see_ it. Arthur reminds himself: This is not Dragoon. This is _Merlin._ Merlin’s name becomes his mantra.

At long last, Merlin rouses and opens his eyes.

“It’s time,” he says, “to push.”

Arthur should have known the peace couldn’t last. He thought he’d heard Gwen scream before. Now, she hardly sounds human. She sounds like death.

“Don’t!” Gwen’s delirious, slapping away his hands. “Stop. Please.”

Arthur steps forward, hovers. “Do something.”

Merlin bites, “I’m doing the best—”

“Not good enough. You’re killing her.”

Merlin does all he can to restrain her flailing limbs. “I swear I’m not. I’m just—”

“Hands off,” Arthur snarls, and he puts his hands on Merlin. Grabs him by the shoulders, yanks him roughly around, and there’s a flicker of something in Merlin’s face, something Arthur had never wanted to see there again. Fear.

Only for a second, until Merlin tamps it down. His face goes blank, eyes barricaded. Arthur releases Merlin like a hot coal. He sags and turns away, ashamed. He’d promised himself, never again. Yet at the first hint of danger…

“I’m…” he says. Words are sour on his tongue.

Merlin’s already back with Gwen, ignoring Arthur. “You need to push, milady.”

Gwen does, groaning all the way.

“That’s it. That’s good.”

It doesn’t _sound_ good. For Gwen screams and screams and screams. And a part of Arthur dies and dies and dies. And then, as the sun begins to tinge the sky the color of a baby’s flesh, the Queen’s screams grow weak. 

They stop altogether. 

The sudden dearth of sound startles Arthur up from where he has absolutely not been slumped asleep in a chair by the fire. 

Sometime during the night, Merlin must have drawn the velvet curtains about the bed, perhaps to shield Gwen from the eyes of the servants. Or perhaps to shield Arthur from his failure.

There’s no movement from beyond. 

Arthur thinks: It’s over.

Arthur thinks: She’s gone.

Silence deafens.

Then there’s a new sound. A cry of a different sort.

The curtains thrash, and Merlin falls out of the bed. From the looks of it, he’d fallen asleep where he sat, the ground a rude awakening.

“Tell me,” Arthur says, gripping Merlin’s elbow to help him to his feet.

“You’re a father,” Merlin says. He blinks, a slow thing. “Twice.”

With a whimper, Arthur shoves the curtain aside and _sees_. 

Gwen is drenched and exhausted and very much alive. In her arms, she holds not one child, but two. Two perfectly shaped heads protrude, one nestled in each arm. Two sets of fists flail. Two mouths twist into screams of bloody murder. 

“Two little Arthurs,” she says, deliciously tired. “Whatever will we do?”

Arthur adds his own hysterical laughter to the mix, a glorious cacophony. 

* * *

 

And so it is, on this day, as a dragon died, the Pendragon heirs were born.


	19. Chapter 19

Merlin stands outside the warm little bubble, always outside. Not for the first time, he feels out of place, witness to such a private moment. Yet he’s mesmerized as Arthur’s face suffuses with a new expression, a father.

Eventually, Merlin tears himself away from Arthur’s happily ever after. He has a lot of practice stepping from the King’s chambers at just the right time. He does so now, ghosting noiselessly to the door and snicking it shut behind him.

It’s only as he stands with his back to the wood that he remembers he has nowhere to go. Doubtless his old quarters have been given to someone else. And he doesn’t feel ready yet, for the knights. For Gwaine.

So he starts down the hall, headed away. He can always sleep in the stables, with the hounds. Wouldn’t be the first time. But before he’s even rounded the corner, the door behind him opens anew.

“Wait,” someone says. 

Merlin turns back to find Arthur closing the door carefully, leaving Gwen to her rest. When Arthur turns to regard him, Merlin’s unsure how to interpret his stance, his face. Perhaps the time is past when he knew a King better than he knew himself. The King has moved on and left him behind.

And so Merlin can’t be sure what Arthur might do next. Two guards down the hall have snapped to attention, eyes intent on their King.

This is the point where Arthur will either stand by his public vow.

Or he won’t.

Merlin returned to Camelot. Cue the pain of death. Except, Arthur’s not wearing his sword. His hands clench by his side.

“There’s always a price,” Arthur says, and at first Merlin doesn’t know what he means. He’s stiff, as though afraid of what Merlin will say.

“Oh.” Merlin blinks. Arthur’s waiting for the flip of the coin. His children live. Thus, someone must die. It’s the only thing he knows. 

“That was the Old Religion,” Merlin says. “This is the new.” 

This grand pronouncement is undermined when the world goes sideways. Merlin has to put a hand to the wall to steady himself. “Ooh.”

“Easy there.” Arthur steps forward, concerned.

Merlin waves him back and wills away the topsy turvy. Wouldn’t do for Arthur to think he can’t hold his magic any more than he can hold his liquor.

“Sleep,” he slurs. “I need it. The words will wait.”

Merlin shoves off and wobbles only a little down the corridor. It’s been a long couple of days, what with the dragon and the flying and the birthing of twins.

Behind him, Arthur clears his throat. “That’s not the way to your chambers.”

Merlin keeps going. If he stops now, he might not start again. “I doubt your new physician would be happy to see me.”

“Why would he be in your chambers?”

Everything spins. “Because they’re his?”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and he’s suddenly too close, his hand on Merlin’s arm. “Your chambers are yours.”

They look as impeccable as Merlin had left them. No one has disturbed a thing.

 _Six months_ , Merlin thinks.

He hardly remembers climbing the stairs to his room, can’t fathom that there were ever so many. He certainly doesn’t remember face-planting, fully dressed, onto the bed. But he does remember this: it was Arthur who looped an arm around his waist and half-carried him the whole way there.

* * *

 

Merlin sleeps through the day, the night, and most of the next. He sleeps better than he has in months. Six months, to be precise.

Too soon, he’s awoken to a raucous clatter in his antechamber. He sits up in bed, instantly on edge, for it sounds suspiciously like a cadre of knights fending off an invading army. And indeed, when Merlin totters down the stairs, there are knights filling his chambers, a roaring fire in the hearth. 

They’re all here—Gwaine and Percy and Elyan and Leon. Set up camp, from the looks of it, and well into a game of dice.

Gwaine is the first to look up. “I see we woke you at last.” He raises his goblet. “To sleeping beauty.”

Then there are cheers and a rush of bodies and hugs all around.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Gwaine says.

“You saved Gwen. Again,” Elyan says. “And my nephews. I have nephews!”

“It’s good to have you back,” Percy says.

Gwaine nods, solemn. “The King has been insufferable.”

“As have you,” Elyan says, and musses Gwaine’s hair, which earns him a headlock.

“Speaking of the King,” Leon says over the tussle, “he requests your presence as soon as you awoke.”

Merlin needs a bath and a shave and will never remotely be prepared for this. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

* * *

 

The throne room is filled to burst, and not only with people. There’s an energy in the air, like how skin prickles before a storm. Merlin had made no secret of his return, so word would have spread while he slept. Everyone knows he’s back. Everyone knows he saved the Queen. Now, everyone has gathered to see what the King will do about it.

Merlin slips in and waits until the crowd begins to notice.

At the front, Arthur wraps up the day’s audience. When Merlin's ripple reaches him, he stiffens and sits up straighter in his throne. But he keeps his attention on the peasant before him.

Not surprising, the man is Dirge. When Merlin was still at court, hardly a week would pass when Dirge didn’t bring some perceived slight to the King. Looks like the trend has continued in Merlin’s absence. To his credit, Arthur doesn’t rush the man. He listens with seeming calm as Dirge drones on about this week’s crisis.

At last at last at last Dirge finishes his account. Arthur proclaims his judgment (the same thing he’s said the last three times Dirge has raised this issue), which everyone but Dirge can see is more than fair, and the man is led away.

Many in the room had stopped paying attention during Dirge’s diatribe. 

Everyone pays attention now.

There’s a brief pause as Arthur waits for Geoffrey to record the judgement. The only noise in the room is the scratching of his quill, the shuffling of feet, the occasional cough. Geoffrey has never seemed to write more slowly. Finally, he flourishes his quill and gives Arthur a firm nod, it is done.

Only then does the King raise his eyes to Merlin.

“There is one final matter to bring before the court,” Arthur says. “A matter of grave importance.” 

Merlin can see it in the small things—the slight cock of Arthur’s head, the squint of his eyes, the whites of his knuckles against the arms of his throne. The King is on edge, nervous.

“Merlin of Ealdor,” he says. “Step forward.”

The walk to the throne has never seemed so long. Fortunately, Merlin does not walk alone. The knights walk with him, his honor guard. As one, they stop a few paces from Arthur. And this is the point where the knights should break off and move to their usual posts along the wall. This time, they don’t. They form a knot around Merlin. And there they remain.

Arthur doesn’t miss the gesture. His smile is thin, tight.

“Six months ago, I banished Merlin from Camelot, to return on pain of death. Now, he’s returned.” The crowd shifts, uncomfortable. They don’t like where this is going. “But here’s the thing. He came back because I asked him to. I don’t know how, but he heard my plea to save Guinevere. And he came from the ends of the earth and did just that.”

Arthur stands. He removes his crown and places it on the seat of his throne. “So it’s not Merlin who’s on trial today.” Arthur steps down from the platform. He strides past Merlin and the knights, out into the center of the room. “I am.”

The room stirs like wind through leaves and of course. Merlin should have known. Arthur and his acute sense of honor. His original condemnation of Merlin was in public. So, too, must be his absolution.

Arthur continues, “If I learned anything from my father’s mistakes, it’s to admit when I’m wrong. And so I have something to confess: I was wrong. I did not listen to the counsel of those far wiser than me. I banished an innocent man. For you see, Merlin did not kill my father. Morgana did.”

The crowd gasps.

Arthur continues, “But these are things you have seen. There’s something worse that you didn’t see.”

The crowd exchanges glances. What could be worse than killing a king?

Merlin’s chest is tight, tight, tight.

Arthur looks miserable. “I struck a friend in anger. Not once, but many times. I made him bruise. I made him bleed.”

Merlin’s heart bleeds, that Arthur chooses to expose such a private shame. The crowd is restless, uncertain. They can hardly believe this of their King.

Arthur continues, “The King is a subject of this land. Subject to the same laws. Had a man beat his neighbor in anger, I would condemn him to the lash. In this kingdom, this type of behavior is not tolerated, not even from a King.”

With that, the King of Camelot kneels at the feet of his former manservant. There’s a murmur of shock from the people, for Kings do not kneel to others. It’s not done.

Arthur sags back onto his heels and looks up into Merlin’s face. “I’m unfit to pass judgment on others, for I, too, am guilty. I have done you a grievous wrong, and I’m deeply ashamed. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of it. And so here I am. I await your judgment.”

Arthur bows his head. And it feels strange, it feels wrong to see Arthur so broken, doubting, and in despair. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.

And so Merlin sinks down to Arthur’s level. He lifts his voice for all to hear. “I’m glad you banished me, for now I have walked this land. I have learned of its ways and of its people and of my own magic. It was not a curse. It was a gift. One that I’m happy to return, one that I can use to serve you all the better. And you do not need to ask for my forgiveness. You already have it.”

Arthur looks up at Merlin in disbelief, as though he hadn’t dared hope.

“You also asked for my judgment, and this I will also give.” Gently, Merlin grips Arthur by the shoulders. “Rise, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot.” Merlin helps Arthur to his feet, steadies him with his hands. “Go forth to unite the land of Albion and become the greatest King this world will ever know. This is your destiny, the burden only you can carry.”

Arthur is stunned. “But I am unfit to be King.”

Merlin lets his voice go gravelly, channeling Dragoon. “It’s the one who thinks he’s unfit to rule that is most fit.”

With that, Merlin bows deep from the waist, an honest, true thing, the only time he’s ever bowed to Arthur. The rest of the court follows suit, some going to their knees. Then someone starts the chant (and it might even be Gwaine): “Long live the King!” 

It’s echoed down the hall, through the castle, and bleeds out into the lower town. All of Camelot bows to Arthur.

Through it all, Arthur’s eyes stayed locked on Merlin’s. Merlin, who’s grinning like he’s soft in the head. Merlin, who has seen Arthur cry only a handful of times. 

This is one of them.

Geoffrey chooses that moment to lean in, quill at the ready.

“So that’s a pardon, then?”

* * *

 

Abysmally early the next morning, Merlin goes to the kitchen for a plate of breakfast. Without a word, Cook hands it over, a platter fit for a King. She and the kitchen maids even curtsey, which turns Merlin all kinds of red.

Merlin walks it up to Arthur’s chambers. He enters without knocking to find George helping Arthur get dressed for the day.

“That door,” George says, “was locked.” He looks like he’s swallowed hemlock.

“Indeed,” Merlin says. He walks over to the table and deposits the plate. Then he takes a few steps toward Arthur. Stops. Waits.

George looks between them.

Neither Merlin nor Arthur say a word.

George looks to Arthur. “Sire, surely you’re not going to—”

Arthur _looks_ at him. 

The servant shrivels. “Right then,” he says, clicking his heels together. “I’ll be off.”

Neither of them watch him leave. George latches the door behind him, so soundless it’s as though he never was.

Arthur steps closer, something tentative in his face. For a single instant, Merlin feels the urge to cower, to run. But he stands his ground.

He trusts.

And this is what Arthur does: Arthur draws him into a hug. A real hug—full contact, boneless, the way they’ve never hugged. He even rests his chin on Merlin’s shoulder.

“I missed you.” Arthur’s voice in his ear is rough, unsure.

Merlin goes warm. His insides _glow_.

When he can speak, he says, “And I, you.”

They draw back. A warm, heavy hand lingers on Merlin’s shoulder. They regard each other.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. 

“As am I.” They both have much to be sorry for.

But Arthur’s not done. “Truly. There’s no excuse for what I did.”

“You were scared. I understand.”

Arthur’s eyebrow quirks at the jibe, but he lets it stand. After all, it’s true. “You forgive me too easily.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Arthur releases him and withdraws to a respectable distance.

“This,” he says, suddenly stern, waving a hand between them, “never happened.”

Merlin breaks into the goofiest grin. “Of course, Sire.”

Later, as Merlin swirls a cloak about Arthur’s shoulders, the King asks, “Are you going to tell me how you did it?”

“Did what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Walked past at least a hundred guards into the heart of Camelot, unchecked.”

“ _That_ is a secret.” Merlin keeps his eyes on the cloak’s clasp.

Arthur frowns. “If this is to work, there can be no more secrets.”

Merlin’s fingers still. He lets his hands fall away. “Then I guess this can’t work.” There’s a flash of hurt in Arthur’s face, so Merlin hastens to add, “After all, a wizard can’t be expected to divulge all of his deep, dark secrets. How else am I to preserve an air of mystery? An illusion of grandeur?”

“Illusion is right,” Arthur mutters. But he looks relieved. “Seriously, Merlin. I’ve a family now. It won’t do for sorcerers to waltz in whenever they please.”

“They won’t.” Merlin steps away and makes a beeline for the door. He’d forgotten how fun it is to poke the bear.

Arthur calls after him, “How do you know?”

“Because most sorcerers aren’t me.” With that, Merlin ducks out the door.

“Merlin,” Arthur bellows.

Merlin pops his head back in. He looks around, furtive. “If you must know, I didn’t walk into Camelot. I flew.” Then he’s off, leaving a flummoxed Arthur in his wake.

* * *

 

Merlin settles back into his life in Camelot as though he’d never left. Everyone is delighted to have him back. Even George doesn't mind, for it turns out he's the only person in the castle capable of getting the twins to stop crying. He's finally found his purpose in life, as devoted nanny to not one but two princes.

It’s almost perfect.

Almost.

* * *

 

Which brings us to tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a big day. Arguably the biggest day Camelot has ever seen. Bigger than when Arthur was crowned King. Bigger even than when the babies were born. Tomorrow is the day when Kings and Queens across Albion converge on Camelot. They come to swear their allegiance to Arthur Pendragon as their High King. It has something to do with his tireless efforts to unify the kingdoms, root out all manner of nefarious deeds, and single-handedly eliminate the constant threat of Saxon invasion without an ounce of bloodshed.

But that’s tomorrow.

Today, the castle is all a’bustle with preparations for a feast that will make all previous feasts look like a campfire roast. The ovens in the kitchen have blazed non-stop for weeks. Cook has nearly screamed herself hoarse. Merlin thinks he’s never seen her so happy.

Today, there are a thousand and one details for Arthur to attend to before the delegations arrive. There’s the matter of room assignments and seating charts and approving the wording for the crowning ceremony, which Geoffrey has dug up for the occasion. But Arthur takes one look at the parchments that overflow his desk and tells Merlin, “Right. We ride out within the hour.”

Arthur, the soon-to-be High King of Albion, has just decided to play hooky.

There’s only one thing for Merlin to do.

He follows.

Together, they gallop from the east gate as though there are bandits on their heels. Arthur might even let out a war whoop, just in time to topple one of the guards as they sweep past.

Not surprisingly, Arthur leads them to a hidden lake in the hills nearby, the one that he and Merlin and the knights have escaped to many a time, particularly during the summer months when the stifling heat gets to be too much or the castle walls start to close in. The water is so blue it hardly looks real. 

They spend the morning swimming and sunning themselves and swimming some more. Arthur shows off, spearing fish in the shallows.

“It’s all about the reflexes,” he says, so modest, as he pikes another one.

In response, Merlin whistles. Five fish leap from the water and flap about on the shore. Arthur’s no longer the only one who can show off. They gorge themselves on fish until their tongues singe and juices drip down their chins. Arthur even licks his fingers clean, like a barbarian.

“May I present the High King of Albion,” Merlin says with a flourish, and Arthur reaches out to smear greasy fingers through his hair. It’s obnoxious, but Merlin doesn’t mind. For a long while there, Arthur wouldn’t deign to touch him, not even in jest. Slowly, they’re working their way back to their easy physical camaraderie. Merlin missed it more than he knew.

“Today, I’m not a King,” he says, solemn. “I’m just Arthur.”

Afterward, they soak in the water, floating on their backs. Merlin lets the currents drift him out into the middle of the lake, where the water goes dark and deep. He’s found it gives him the best view. Then, he looks within. He follows the streams that flow from the lake. Everywhere the water reaches, the land flourishes. And with it, the people.

Albion has blossomed.

Merlin’s just about to see if he can stretch his senses into the ocean (or maybe even beyond) when something grabs at his heel and _yanks_.

When he surfaces, flailing and sputtering, Arthur is already swimming back to shore with long, sure strokes.

“What was that for?” Merlin cries in mock outrage.

“That was so you would stop flirting with the water nymphs and come attend your King.”

“There’s no King here, remember? All I see is an ass.”

“I heard that.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

Merlin doggy-paddles his way back to shore and flops down beside Arthur on the bank. For a long while, they sun themselves in silence. They’ll need drying before they climb back into the saddle.

Then, out of the blue, Arthur says, “I’ve been thinking.”

Merlin doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “Stop. Nothing good will come of it.”

Arthur says, “I’ve been thinking about Morgana.”

“Now I _know_ nothing good will come of it.”

“Merlin.”

“Arthur.”

“We have to talk about it.”

Merlin is too sun-drunk to follow, head lazy on his neck. “About what?”

Arthur’s exasperated. “What Morgana said.”

Merlin keeps his voice light. “Morgana said a lot of things.”

“And we’ve talked about most of them.” There’s a long pause. “But there’s one thing we haven’t discussed.”

Above them, a cloud passes over the sun. Merlin feels a sudden chill that pebbles his flesh. He understands now, what this day has been about. Everything is about to change for them, Arthur’s burden to increase tenfold, and they will likely not be able to do something like this again. At least not for a while as Arthur settles into his new role.

So this is their last chance before their life careens out of control. Today has been Arthur’s way of easing into it. This isn’t something you blurt over breakfast.

“Arthur—” Merlin warns, but Arthur barrels on.

“She spoke of your heart.”

Merlin’s heart makes itself known in his chest. “She was grasping.”

“Probably,” Arthur says. “Yet it’s not something we’ve ever talked about.”

“You never asked,” Merlin says flatly.

“Since when has that stopped you?”

Gods help them, Arthur wants to talk about this. And he’ll keep them here until they do.

Grudging, Merlin mutters, “There was a girl, once.”

“What happened?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” Merlin wonders if Freya is listening to them even now. This is her lake, after all. He sometimes fancies he can hear her, laughing on the wind. But the lake is utterly silent now, no wind through the trees. As though even the forest holds its breath.

“And now?”

Merlin stays silent. He doesn’t have to answer these questions. Not if he doesn’t want to.

Arthur seems uncertain how to breach the wall Merlin has thrown up. “Gwen and I want you to be happy.”

And isn’t that perfect. Merlin can just imagine Arthur and Gwen talking about him late at night, heads sharing the same pillow, co-conspirators. Poor Merlin. Possibly Arthur feels that he demands too much of Merlin, doesn’t allow him enough time for a personal life.

“I am.”

“And yet I can’t help but feel there’s something missing.”

“It doesn’t matter now. What I want, I can never have.”

Arthur stills. “How do you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you know if you’ve never asked?”

Merlin’s starting to feel irritable from the water and the sun and the fish souring in his stomach. This is not at all how he’d hoped the day would go. It was supposed to be relaxing, a final hurrah before the hurricane. Instead, it’s starting to feel like a battle. 

“I don’t have to ask,” he says. “I already know the answer.” Merlin rolls to his side, showing his back to Arthur.

There’s the sound of something shifting along the bank. The sound seems to be coming closer. Merlin peeks over his shoulder to find Arthur half-sitting above him. And of course the cloud chooses that moment to unveil the sun once more. It halos Arthur’s head like a crown. He’s blinding, some ancient deity.

Merlin squints up at him. “You’re blocking my sun.” 

Arthur leans closer.

So close they could touch.

Merlin can’t move. His whole word has funneled to what Arthur will say. What Arthur will do. He’s hyperaware of the few inches of heated air between them. His skin strains with it.

Arthur is the one to move.

Arthur is the one to place a tentative hand on Merlin’s bare chest. His strong fingers spread across Merlin’s heart. Touch unbearably light.

“Ask it,” Arthur whispers, “and I will give it.”

For a moment, it could go either way. Merlin can see the future in Arthur’s eyes.

Words are butterflies that surge up Merlin’s throat, that flutter in his mouth. He wants nothing more than to release them, to tell Arthur yes and please and it’s you, it’s always been you. 

But he doesn’t. 

In that future lies pain of a different sort. Arthur thinks he can give what he offers, but Merlin knows better. Arthur has a family now. He’s a father. Even if Gwen understands—even if this was partly Gwen’s idea—they don’t fully understand what they’re offering.

And so, for an eternity, Merlin doesn’t move. It takes every bit of his strength, everything he is, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t allow it to bleed into his face, how much he _wants_. How much he _needs_. He clamps his jaw and won’t set those butterflies free. Presses his tongue against the shards of his teeth.

For a thousand years, Arthur touches him. Touches him while Merlin tries to lie with his face and his eyes and his very soul.

But his heart.

His heart can’t lie.

They can both feel it, thrumming wildly, madly under Arthur’s palm.

And the longer Arthur touches him, the more Merlin can feel his resolve melt away, here beneath the warmth of a golden sun and beneath a golden palm.

Nearby, a branch breaks off from one of the trees and lands with a ponderous thud. (Merlin might have had something to do with this.)

At the sound, Arthur retreats. He stares at the offending branch for a long moment, then murmurs, “You’ve done this before.”

And that’s when the butterflies escape. Arthur shoves himself to his feet, startled by the sudden apparition. The air over the lake is filled with shimmer and flutter. Merlin accidentally caused a cascade.

Arthur stands at the epicenter—always at the center—of the world’s least dangerous tornado. Butterflies alight on every spare inch of his body, as though christening him.

“Right,” he says, huffing a butterfly off his nose. “My first decree as High King will be to repeal the ban on magic. Then it’s your job to figure out how to keep people from killing each other with it.”

Merlin frowns. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the Court Sorcerer.” Arthur says this as though it’s obvious.

Merlin sneezes. 

Brilliant, he’s allergic to butterfly. He’ll add this to the list—flowers and bones and butterflies.

Arthur laughs and whirls, scattering butterflies in his wake. He’s about halfway up the bank when he stops and turns back.

“And one more thing. I’m also appointing you as the Royal Tutor. When they’re old enough, I want you to teach my boys.”

“Teach them what?”

“How to be a great King.”

Merlin’s mind whirls. There are so many things to see in this wide world, so many things only he can show them. He’ll introduce them to the water nymphs. Maybe he’ll turn them into owls. Or fish. Or even ants.

Merlin thought he’d seen Arthur happy before, at a feast, the day his babies were born, when Merlin came back. But here, standing on the lip of an enchanted lake, the whole of Albion at his feet, Arthur is a larger than life legend. Someone should compose a ballad. Something about a glorious future in Arthur’s eyes and jeweled butterflies in his hair.

But then Arthur ruins it by pulling something from his saddlebag and tossing it at Merlin’s head.

Miracle of miracles, Merlin catches it. This time, it’s something he doesn’t immediately recognize. Something in an odd, conical shape. With a sharp point.

“What’s this?”

“Your hat.”

“You’re joking.”

Arthur looks deadly serious. “Every Court Sorcerer needs a hat.”

“Right, because you have so much experience with Court Sorcerers.” 

Arthur says nothing. Just looks at him with that glint in his eye, the first hint of a smile.

“I am not wearing this. No one will take me seriously.”

Arthur’s smile blossoms. He takes a step toward Merlin.

Merlin almost shakes his head off his neck. He waves his arms about. “No, Arthur. No. I’m serious. Just, no.”

Arthur takes another step, until he stands right before Merlin. He leans in again, too close, as though he has some secret to tell. Merlin shivers.

Arthur whispers something, right in Merlin’s ear. “Race you.”

Then he places a hand in the middle of Merlin’s chest and _shoves_. He’s up, up, and away on his horse before Merlin can scramble back to his feet. 

Merlin stands hip-deep in the water, a drenched rat, watching his king gallop away, laughing hysterically, looking for all the world like the tow-headed boy who used to ride fearlessly through the fields of Camelot. No crown, no armor, no saddle. He’s not even wearing any _trousers._

* * *

 

Merlin wears the hat.

It ends up looking smashing with his beard.

 

 

**THE END**

* * *

 

 **Author’s note:** The best two words I ever write—the end. This one’s been a beast. My husband swore up and down that the story should have ended when Merlin was banished, as he thought that ending felt right. But I wasn’t about to leave you all hanging. Arthur’s no good without his Merlin. And hopefully this last bit helps tie up some of the loose threads from the series itself. I did so want to see Arthur become High King. 

Also, I’m profoundly grateful that here we are so many years after the show and people are still reading this. What a spectacular fandom this is. Stay strong, Merlin fans. Until Arthur returns.


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